The Final Seven
by longliveelphie
Summary: After Sweeney's death, he meets seven people who've changed the course of his life...and give him a chance to redeem himself.
1. Breath

**I've been touching on this idea recently. I love the novel The Five People You Meet In Heaven, so this is sort of a x-over, idk. Anywhoo, this chapter is short, but the rest will be much longer. Because you've begun your adventure into my story willingly(unless your reading this at gunpoint...for some reason...), you receive a Goodie of the Day! YEahhh!! today it's cherry-flavored snow cone(in honor of one Sweeney fic I read).**

* * *

Death. Darkness. Emptiness. Sweeney Todd's heart was gone, and no amount of love or life could fill it. He saw his chaos-his reality-laying before him in the form of his dearly departed Lucy, sprawled in his arms. He felt weak, and his heart sank with grief because he didn't posses the strength to grasp and hold his Lucy close to his chest. She could only lie loose and cold upon his lap, on top of his unresponsive arms. The world around him slowed to a crawl. His senses heightened; all the sounds, smells, sights, and feelings in the world blended together into a whirlpool of confusion, dripping with consequence. He felt the heat from the oven, blazing as it consumed Mrs. Lovett, devouring her into ashes. He smelt the crimson pools of blood that covered the floor, as well as the streams that dripped across his face and hair. He could hear the echoes of screams and the last steps of Mrs. Lovett, fading away into the emptiness of the stone cellar. His breathing was slow and heavy; he seemed to struggle for air. And he felt his Lucy, her limp body seeming to crush his body as she lay helpless and hopeless before him. She bore no expression on her face, only a strangely peaceful, blank, closed-eye countenance, showing him no love, no grace, and no beauty that her life once held. He struggled to cry, for he wanted nothing more than to wash the pain away with pure drops of water down his face. But Sweeney was unfeeling; Benjamin Barker, who Sweeney once was, was the one who cried. Benjamin's eyes were dried up, completely unable to produce the tears of comfort after the first year in prison flew by. After that, those sweet yet salty drops never caressed his face again.

Soft, quiet echoes seemed to form out of the emptiness. Voices, distant and pure, molded, though Sweeney could not decipher their words. They were soothing, yet incredibly haunting; they were death's welcome. He drank up their cries so completely that he barely heard the sound of the sewer grate opening, or the patting of hands upon the stone floor. He did not hear the scratching of his friend as Toby lifted him off the ground. He did not hear Toby's footsteps, or his heavy breathing. Sweeney's heart slowed, almost stopped. The voices died, and the world began to melt into a form of nothingness, everything was indifferent from everything else. He soon felt nothing, heard nothing, and comprehended nothing. His touch was quickly awakened by the sharp cut of the cool, smooth razor as it glided across his throat, releasing a stream of blood, low in pressure from his slow heart. The feeling went away, and soon his smell, and then his sight. The last image he gazed as was his Lucy, his own blood dripping across her beautiful yet damaged face.

And then, nothing. Sweeney Todd was now dead in both soul and body.


	2. Choice

**Yeah, part 2. another short one, but nevertheless important. Enjoy, and thanks for your messages and reviews! Goodie of the Day: caribbean passion flavored jamba juice. Disclaimer: nope, don't own**

Sweeney awoke to a strange, black world. He felt nothing around, above or below him. He could clearly see his own features, not one drop the sickening blood mingled on his shirt. He put his hand to his face, at which point he realized he no longer possessed a razor. There was no blood on his face or hair either. He was standing not on ground, but on some sort of shelf of darkness. Wherever he landed in was neither hot nor cold, and he didn't seem to be breathing. He felt no worry, he felt no pain, and he had the wonderful sensation of weightlessness, carelessness, and no nostalgia. But he was also neither happy nor sad, just an unfeeling, empty soul in Erebus.

* * *

_Where…?_

_Where…?_

_What…?_

_How…?_

Sweeney couldn't think of anything else. His thoughts were cloudy, as if waking up from a deep sleep and not remembering your dreams. He was dizzy from not feeling gravity weighing down his body and his heart. He tried to scream, "Hello", but no sound came out. No echo, no reverberating sound of comfort. Was this his punishment, doomed to roam this nothingness for all of eternity, unable to conjure any thoughts? He questioned this for what seemed like weeks, months, years, but could easily not been more than several seconds. Time didn't seem to matter here in this limbo of space and existence.

At last, color and light appeared on the horizon. It started as a dull, faded blend of light, like the light of the sun at its first sign of ascent. The light changed colors quickly, a rainbow of shades dancing in the distance. Finally, the light grew in a brilliant yellow flash. Sweeney shielded his eyes as the intensity of the brilliant luminescence peaked. Then, quite suddenly, it faded. He opened his eyes and lowered his arm. He blinked several times, his eyes recovering from the shock of light.

There appeared before him two doors, both alike in stature and structure. However, color separated them completely. One was white in its purist form, whiter and more beautiful than the most vibrant snow. It was soothing, mesmerizing. Its luminescence filled him with comfort. The other was the color of the familiar deep sticky blood. It was a menacing door, and very tempting. It gave Sweeney the craving for blood once more, and that's what made him fear it. Which one should he open? The answer to what lay behind each door was obvious, but was his fate for him to decide, or would one just open automatically? Not entirely sure of his fate, he sat and waited on the ground (or whatever it was). He patiently waited for what seemed like several minutes. Sweeney was surprised with himself; he was always an impatient person, he wondered why this seemed so nonchalant. Several more minutes passed, and now Sweeney began to worry. He contemplated his life, and knew which door he was destined for. But should he choose the door he felt obliged to open, or the one he knew would lead to eternal ecstasy with his dearly departed Lucy. It seemed it would be his to decide. Sweeney did not wish to determine his destiny; the mere thought of it send his mind into a whirlwind of confusion and despair. The red door lead only to eternal misery, something he had suffered for so long, but knew that he deserved. He was a demon, not truly human, incapable of love or mercy. Or was he? Did he not have love for his Lucy and his Johanna? Was it possible that he had not completely turned his back on God simply because he felt these only two great, burdensome loves that had ached his heavy heart? Would he be redeemed simply for this one factor?

Suddenly, another great flash of light appeared. Sweeney covered his eyes, shielding them from the blinding glow that struck his eyes with such great intensity. There was a horrible sound of melting, churning; blending that reverberated throughout the empty chaos that enveloped him. It echoed in every which direction, so loudly that he covered his ears in vain, which only allowed more of the blinding light to burst through his shut eyes. Then, as quickly as it came, it ended. He slowly opened his eyelids. Now, there was only one door, the color of deep, mysterious sapphire. It had a twinkle to it, yet its effect was virtuously blank; it was neither good nor evil. Sweeney grasped what this meant: the answer was yes. Of course, needless to say he had some unusual habits when he was alive. Who is to say that he does not need some correction? His one glimmer of love for all that was dear to him saved his soul, yet it was not left tainted. Redemption, he breathed. Seeing no other option, he grasped the handle, which was cold to the touch, and not of smooth brass, but a rough, sandpapery material. Whatever lay behind this door was not going to be easy to conquer; it would not be easy to overcome his soul's stains. He inhaled deeply, and turned the knob. It acquiesced to his command easily, and the door flew open. Inside was a room very similar, but quite opposite of where he was: all white, and nothing but. He exhaled as he stepped through, wondering what trials he would face as he stared down at his evils.


	3. The First Person

**so ya, new chapter. Goodie of the day: churros. enjoy**

All white, no form, no shape in sight. It was almost as hellish as the first one, but worse. The intense whiteness was nothing like the first door he saw: beautiful, calm, and mesmerizing, but more like blinding and irritating. He looked down at his clothes, and saw that he was wearing his leather coat, but it was its old shade of chocolate brown instead of the tired black he was so used to. His hands were smooth and considerably tanner and his pants were new and clean, as well as his shoes. He noticed that he had no shadow in this snow-white abyss. He ran his hand through his hair, something he hadn't really been able to do in a long time. It was surprisingly conditioned, smooth and tamed. He touched his face; it felt soft, clean, and didn't bare the hard lines he required from his years of stress. He looked like his old self, Benjamin Barker. How unusual yet wonderful, that time could be reversed in this strange, irritating place. He felt, oddly, nostalgic for his old lifestyle. Looking like the man who had died years ago reminded him of his old days. He scoffed, thinking how stupid and ridiculous he used to be as a younger man.

However, his observations did not last long, as his eyes began to burn from the sheer vividness of the room. He kept blinking, his eyes painfully trying to block out the powerful light. He closed his eyes, which dulled the brilliance of the room only a little. He tried to escape with a thought, a dream, an imagination, but nothing came to mind. He couldn't think, feel, or hurt, only sit in empty silence of his mind, the back of his eyelids the only definite thing he could really see was real. He began to notice that the light began to fade slightly. He heard it again, that awful, unearthly melting, corroding sound, as if the entire world was dissolving into one great mass. Quite suddenly, the terrible noise ended, and he opened his eyes.

Sweeney was standing in a building he had never seen before. It was grander in size, structure, and elegance than any other edifice he had ever stepped in before. He was in the lobby, a great room with a ceiling at least forty feet high, supported by supremely decorated Roman columns of white. The floor, which was definitely a floor, was a swirling mass of grey marble, cool and hard beneath his shining shoes. Even here, where lighting was available, neither he nor any other object possessed a shadow. There were several dark blue plush couches placed in the center of the room, sitting atop several black and white paisley printed rugs. Several counters with simple lamps and ashtrays dotted the place, as well as the occasional shrub. Beautiful, glittering crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, sending several reflections throughout the room. Tall, clean as a bell glass series of windows lined the walls, letting cheery sunlight into the room. He couldn't see what was on the other side of the windows, giving him no indication as to where he was.

Oddly, there was not a person in sight, no familiar face. He felt incredibly alone, and slightly uncomfortable standing there stupidly. He walked over to one of the plush couches and sat in it. It was the softest, most comfortable piece of furniture he had ever sat in. He exhaled with relief. He felt incredibly tired all of a sudden, as if he, in actual time, had been awake several hours longer than he was used to. He laid his head against the arm of the couch, and closed his eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep.

Some time later, he awoke to the sound of whistling. He sat up sharply, scanning the room, but found no one present. The tune was cheery and lively, which gave to elegant room a homey feeling. He stood up, searching throughout the room for the source of the whistler. Abruptly, the tune stopped. He froze.

"Sir, out here!" the voice called. It belonged to a young man, very sophisticated and well bred; not a shred of cacophony lingered in his voice. Sweeney turned around to face the direction of the voice. There was an open door which he did not see before. It was white and wide open, allowing a cool, clean breeze to blow the through the otherwise stoic room. He couldn't see what was outside of the door, but he knew that whoever called for him was on the other side. Sweeney walked through the doors, and came to look upon a man that he had never seen in his entire life. The man was seated on a wicker chair, with a cup of tea in his hands, and a small table to his right. He was a young, handsome man, about thirty years old with sleek black hair. He was dressed in a very expensive business suit and shining black shoes. He placed a warm, polite smile upon his face. "Hello, Sweeney Todd, I've been expecting you."

Sweeney stared at the man blankly. Who is this stranger? What does he possible know or care about my life? But the man continued to smile gently. He was really beginning to irritate Sweeney; he seemed like such a senseless and naïve man. "I don't mean to be rude" in a tone that dripped with rudeness, "but how do you know who I am? And where the hell am I?!" Sweeney asked gruffly, angrily. The man's grin widened. He sipped some of his tea.

"This, here," he gestured around, "is your first stop in redemption," he said cheerfully. Sweeney blinked. A second chance? He could hardly believe that he was given this opportunity; after all he had ever done, why reconciliation was even considered a possibility. Sweeney was always reminded of the deaths of others, but he never wanted to think about his own death, for he always thought he knew his fate. This knowledge grieved him; he would never reconnect with his Lucy again. But, for whatever reason, God had other plans for him. The man placed his tea on the table next to him.

"And that, good sir, is what I am here for."

"To remind me of my sins, and punish me for them in hopes I repent?" Sweeney asked grimly; he never liked lectures, especially from Mrs. Lovett. _Mrs. Lovett_. He had forgotten about her, and suddenly a wave of anger towards her swept over him. Such betrayal, such disloyalty. How could she torment him inside so? His eyes squinted at the thought of her face.

"No, to teach you _why_ you are here; I am here to help you make sense of your life" he said calmly. "First for introductions: I am Jonathon Cronwell, former Ambassador of the English Defense Department. I am as dead and gone as you are, and I am your first person." Sweeney opened his mouth to ask a question, but the man seemed to already know what that question was going to be. "I am your first person," he repeated, "out of seven with whom you'll encounter later. You may or may not know it, but each of us has either been affected by your life or has affected yours. Some, like I, are people whom you have never met. Others, I believe will be very familiar to you," Jonathon concluded. He gestured to let Sweeney ask his questions, but he had none left. He needed a moment to replay the Mr. Cronwell's words in his head. Seven people, seven lectures, seven lessons that Sweeney, at that moment did not want to hear. To recount his life seemed unbearable to him. Finally, a question was able to form in his head.

"So…what killed you?" Sweeney asked. The man chuckled.

"Why, you did," he said, his tone taking a slightly grim turn. Sweeney widened his eyes. How? He wondered. Sweeney remembered every single one of his customers, and never forgot a face. This man never faced his razor. "Not directly of course, but you still did, nonetheless," Jonathon added at the end.

"Er…how?" Sweeney asked. His muscles tightened. Why was he asking such stupid, ridiculous questions? Sweeney Todd always carefully considered his words, always planned his actions. Acting so naïve was so unlike his nature, though perhaps this experience had dumbfounded him so that he was naturally behaving oddly.

"That is quite a long story. Perhaps you would like to sit down for this," he said gesturing towards one of the couches. They both sat on opposite facing couches. Sweeney sat stiffly, but the man slouched comfortably, as if he was informally conversing with an old friend. "To begin, I trust you remember my friend, Edward Gray?" Sweeney tried to recall a Mr. Gray out of the many victims who met their maker at his doing. Ah, yes, he remembered Mr. Gray. Sweeney smiled grimly and nodded. Jonathon looked at him slightly scoldingly, as if saying, "stop thinking so murderously." Nevertheless, Mr. Cronwell continued his story. "Yes, well, I'm sure you did not know, but my job was extremely important in keeping foreign relations at ease. It was my job to make sure that we Englishmen were well armed and keeping peace with other nations." He stood up, and gestured Sweeney to walk with him around the grand room.

"To begin this story, you must know the background. I was assigned to meet with French ambassadors in this convention center we are standing in as we speak. I arrived on time, looked professional, and waited patiently for the other ambassadors," he said. Sweeney blinked; he could have sworn that he saw the shadowy outline of a man appear close by. He turned his eyes, and noticed that other ghost-like figures displayed their silhouettes throughout the room. They first gave the appearance of solid smoke, but slowly developed color, and then eventually, the color clarified into distinct clothes, skin, and hair. Their faces slowly came into focus, and they finally smoothed the lines around their outlines. Sweeney noticed one figure immediately, standing in the center of the lobby, eying his pocket watch. It was Jonathon. "There I am," he said pointing to his figure.

"My co-worker, Edward Gray, was to meet me beforehand and deliver special documents that we were to hand to the French. Unfortunately, he never showed up," he said gravely, and looked directly into Sweeney Todd's black as coal eyes.

"What happened next?" Sweeney asked, feeling incredibly on the spot with this man staring literally into his soul.

"Go listen to the Frenchmen's conversation, then you will see," Jonathon said. And so he stopped, and gestured to Sweeney so that he knew where the two Frenchmen were. They were both dressed in dark navy pinstripe suits and red ties. One was tall and lanky, while the other was quite shorter, though equal in thinness. They both possessed great, thick mustaches that curled on the ends. The tall one was whispering to the other, pointing at the figure of the past image of Mr. Cromwell. Sweeney could barely hear their voices, and leaned in to listen closer. Both had heavy, slightly snobby French accents. The taller one was speaking.

"Yes, Jacques, zat Monsieur Cromwell doesn't have zee documents. We botha know dat 'is assistant would tap 'im on zee shoulder so we could know zat he was legit'. No one 'as approached him yet. If zee documents are not handed to 'im in _deux minutes,_ zeen zat man is obviously a spy, and must be taken care of…"he said, then trailing off into whispers too soft for anyone to hear. Sweeney eyed them in curiosity. Those two Frenchmen reminded him so much of himself; careful, cunning, and blameful. Because of him, these two men were at a grave misunderstanding, and Jonathon Cromwell had paid the price. As Sweeney contemplated these connections, the two minutes came to a close. He saw the shorter Frenchman pull out a small handgun and held it close to his side, the taller one shielding him in the act. The man pulled the trigger. The other shadows cried as the echo of the gun rang out, and the figure of Jonathon jolted forward, the bullet hitting him in the back of the neck. He stumbled onto his knees, and with a great thump, landed on the floor, dead. The two Frenchmen, acting as if they too were panicked, ran for the door with the other citizens, until only Jonathon's body lay on the floor, a thick pool of deep, crimson blood forming underneath him.

"So you see, Mr. Sweeney Todd, you never did exist in your own little world," Jonathon said darkly, no longer the cheerful man that Sweeney meet only minutes ago. The figure of Jonathon blurred, slowly losing color and clarity, until it became like smoke, and then completely vanished. But just then, a great multitude of smoky shadows engendered throughout the room. More and more came into existence, in such a great multitude as only Sweeney could imagine in his dreams, dozens upon dozens of men, women, and children, all of great shapes, sizes, ethnicities and wealth. Many were poor women with many children, but no fathers by their sides; others were high class ladies without their ever present gentlemen. All bore serious, if not malicious looks upon their faces, as if ready to pounce upon Sweeney and tear him apart; each died indirectly because of his actions. Many of the poorer families starved without their breadwinner fathers; many of the wives committed suicide in grief. What was most disturbing of all, however, was that each and every one of the hundreds and hundreds of people that crowded the vast ballroom all bore slit throats, with blood running down their naked necks. This time though, the blood was no longer pretty, but sickening. Sweeney's stomach tightened upon seeing a river of blood form at the feet of the people, the sounds of their pulsating, deep breathes echoing in the room. Sweeney felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Jonathon, the same look upon his face as the rest of the crowd, the same sickening, and torturing blood running down his cut throat.

"So you see, Sweeney, many more than your customers suffered under your knife."


	4. The First Lesson

**yeah, in between finals studying, I managed to find time to write! Shorter than the last chapter, but still good, I think. Review pleeze. Goodie of the Day: red velvet cupcakes**

Sweeney tried to find the words to speak, but no words could pour forth from his dry throat. He felt hot, nervous, apprehensive, something he was not accustomed to. In all of his dark days of death and loneliness, he never once felt afraid; not of death, not of sin, nor of the dead. But seeing all of these men, women, and children, dead at his hands, brought him the reality of his actions. Each of them looked so pathetic and grieving; there was a little boy holding his teddy bear, bloody from his wounds, and a young beautiful woman with the saddest eyes that he had encountered ever since prison. Jonathon continued to stare into Sweeney's eyes, into his soul, not uttering a sound, letting the echoes of the mass' breathing fill the echoes of the room. Finally, he broke the sounds of their pants.

"Their souls need resting, _my_ soul needs resting," Jonathon said monotonously; he needed not use his tone, only the hard, tired look in his seemingly bottomless eyes. Sweeney's heart softened slightly and a feeling odd and long forgotten trickled into his being, dripping slowly like the leaky faucet in his barber shop. _Sympathy_. But why should he feel, Sweeney Todd never felt anything except agape for his Lucy and Johanna and hatred towards the Judge. He finally found the words to say.

"What do I need to do?" he asked stoically. His expression was impossible to decipher, just as his emotions were now impossible to comprehend. Jonathon closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He slowly opened then, revealing eyes that were no longer angry and hard, but wise and deep. He grasped Sweeney's hand, and tapped his palm with his cold fingertips.

"Heal them," he said simply. Sweeney gave a confused expression. Heal them? He had no surgical tools or sewing supplies, and fixing the wounds of all of these people could take an eternity. Then again, what time did he have to lose? Still, he was quite confused with the command. Jonathon seemed to notice this. He tapped his palm again. Without even telling him, Sweeney suddenly understood what he needed to do. Did he even want to do this? Did he even care about these people? He wasn't sure, but his feet guided him to the huddled mass, slipping off his fingerless gloves as he approached them. He felt numb, not quite sure how to feel about the situation. Part of him knew that he should feel anguished, ashamed, _human_, but another part of him told him that those feelings were gone, not to be brought back ever again; his soul was far too damaged to feel philia for them.

Nevertheless, he found himself approach a young girl, no more than seven. She was so pretty, he white blonde hair tied back in a scarlet ribbon, and a light blue dress. Reality hurled itself at Sweeney when he saw her open throat and the blood stains on her dress. An unknown force guided his hand towards her throat. He wasn't completely aware of what he was doing, but he proceeded anyway, like a reflex that you simply do and cannot control. He touched her warm, oozing wound with his bare palm, and felt her blood. The crimson liquid used to comfort him as he felt its sticky relief, but it no longer had the same effect. Never before had he really studied one of his victims, he always disposed of them quickly; but feeling one of them, their wound no less, was startling and eerily new. The little girl only continued to look at him, her eyes, bright as the summer sky, seeming to read his mind. He felt his hand grow hot, and the feeling of the girl grew detached from him. He could only feel his hand heat up, becoming uncomfortable at first, but then burning to the peak of tolerance. He winced. He could hear her cries of torment, her hunger from starvation, and her pain in life by his cause. Then, his hand slowly began to cool down. The feeling of the girl's throat returned to him, but something was far different; there was no wound, no sticky scarlet blood that he felt once before. Once his hand returned to normal temperature, he lifted it off of her pale throat. It bore no trace of blood, no scar, no evidence that it was ever harmed. He looked at the little girl's face, and saw that her eyes were now warm and forgiving, and she bore a small, sweet smile upon her face. She was the only one that looked inviting. He knew this would take a while.

Several hours seemed to past. He approached every single one of them, touched every single one of their throats, felt every single one of their life's pains. Everyone was different; they all told a different story, some of heartache, some of murder, some of far more complicated matters, such as was the case with Jonathon. Sweeney noticed something as he healed all of their wounds: they were just like him, suffering at the hands of another darker force far greater than they could handle. They were all tortured with feelings that no human should ever feel, should ever want to feel. Now, his heart was truly open to sympathy for these poor, pathetic, and heartrending people. He still did not cry, but only felt a tug in his chest each time he touched one of them. Then suddenly, he was finished. Before him appeared a great mass of smiling, forgiving, loving people, a sight that he thought could not exist. He turned towards Jonathon, who still bore a wound upon his neck and a malicious look upon his face. Sweeney healed him, still bearing all of his screaming pain bottled up inside. Jonathon smiled once again, not with his naïve, cheery grin, but with a wise and open smile that spoke with the heart. Sweeney turned back to the mass, only to find all of the people gone, leaving him and Jonathon alone once again. Jonathon placed his arm on Sweeney's shoulder.

"Consequence: life is full of it. No matter how small our world, our matters seem, we are never disconnected from the rest of humanity. You saw this, you know the effect. Though you saw murder as a quick escape to revenge, you forgot that they were people as well. Remember their faces, Sweeney, remember their pain, and the rest will make sense." Sweeney only nodded in agreement, absorbing all of his words, trying to memorize them. The way he spoke with such wisdom, such a powerful impact enticed Sweeney. No wonder he was an ambassador; his voice could convince any court of nations, Sweeney thought. Jonathon led him towards what appeared to be the front door, a large, oak door with several intricate engravings, old as time. "This is where you depart from here," he spoke simply. He shook his hand, which Sweeney still realized was ungloved. He grabbed his glove out of his pocket and placed it back on its usual place. Jonathon turned from him and headed towards the open door where he first saw him. The sunlight shined brighter than ever, almost a heavenly white.

"Where are you going?" Sweeney asked. Jonathon turned back to him and smiled.

"You've put me to rest. My work is done," he said. He bowed to Sweeney and proceeded to head out of the door, fading into the beautiful light until he faced away into the brilliance. As soon as Jonathon was out of sight, the door closed quickly, leaving Sweeney in complete darkness. The other oak door opened, and revealed another blinding abyss of whiteness as pure and clean as fallen snow. He breathed deeply and stepped through, unsure of what was to become of him.


	5. The Second Person

**Hey, it's me again. In my opinon, this is the crappiest chapter I've ever written. You may think differently, I don't know. In the mean time, please review, and thanks to those who have, it keeps me motivated. You deserve the Goodie of the Day: molten lava cake (btw, I'm not super addicted to food, I just like my good judement of taste).**

**Disclaimer: I hate these, but no, I don't own Sweeney; only Jonathon, Tom, and those people in the building in the last chapter.**

The white, empty, endless abyss with no edges, no floor, no sky, enwrapped Sweeney once more. Once again, he attempted to speak, but no words came out. Perhaps because there was no surfaces, sound could not bounce, and therefore could not be heard. Or perhaps it was simply power beyond his comprehension. He wasn't quite sure. The only thing that Sweeney knew was that he was completely alone once again, and for God knew how long. Sweeney looked down at his body, which now felt tired, as if he taken a long walk. He looked down at his clothing, which was still the same as it was before, except perhaps dirtier; the shoes didn't shine as brilliantly as before, and his shirt did not appear as freshly ironed as it could have been. A piece of his hair fell into his face. Brushing it back, he noticed his hair was slightly uncombed. How curious, he thought. Perhaps he changed with each new person as he changed physically in life over the years. He cringed at the thought. It only reminded him once more of his old self, Benjamin Barker, and how he died slowly and silently. Once more, the cacophony of melting and grinding filled the air. Sweeney screamed, hoping that his voice could be heard now, but even if he could, it was drowned out by the horrid sound that enraptured him. He covered his ears, but not his eyes, though they began to burn a little from the brilliance of the room. Just as the sound was like melting and grinding, so did the scene that was lying before him. The colors of the room dripped a dark, grim stone grey and dim sunlight trickled in one drop at a time. The solid objects seemed to materialize in a way that he could only describe as reverse disintegration. At first, it was difficult to comprehend what exactly he was looking at, but soon he realized the horror as to what it was; the Death Wall, the execution spot in Botany Bay Prison. The noise stopped.

The torturous prison was exactly as he remembered it; cold, bleak, dead, and unloving. Sweeney's mind filled with horrible memories of men being shot like dogs here. He remembered hearing their cries in his cell. Sometimes, the men were even forced to watch the death of a prisoner. Their screams, the hatred here, the smell of death, and the pressure of evil caused him to collapse upon his knees. He bent his head to his stomach, and grasped his hair. The ringing of the voices of murderers, rapists, and thieves enveloped his senses in a way that he could not escape. Those cries, the same ones which haunted him all those years, became too much to bear for him. He needed escape, he needed to run away. Sweeney stood up and ran. No destination came to mind, only the need to travel as far away as possible. Bam, Sweeney ran into an apparent invisible wall; he was still in the Death Wall corridor. He screamed in agony, running back the other way, only to find another invisible wall blocking his way. No matter what he could do, he could not escape the tormenting howls of the scum of the earth.

"Make it stop!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. His cry only echoed with the rest of the voices, escalating their force. He closed his eyes and covered his ears, praying for the end.

The voices obeyed him quite suddenly. At once, the demonic echoes disappeared, leaving the corridor as silent as the grave. Sweeney uncovered his ears and opened his eyes. Before him was a lone figure, his face hidden in the shadows, making Sweeney unable to tell who it was. He stepped towards the tall figure, eying him curiously, wondering his identity. The man approached him until his figure hit the light shining from a tiny window high on the wall. Sweeney's eyes widened when he saw the man's identity.

"Benjamin, it's been such a long time," said the man quietly. Sweeney, to his own surprise gasped; he never believed before that people ever truly gasped until this moment.

"Tom Ashford?" He looked the same as the final moment Sweeney saw him alive; still in his guard uniform, a stiff gray suit as dull as the stone, wearing his helmet and a bayonet slung across his back. He was the same man, the same Botany Bay guard, the same man who saved his life. The man smiled nostalgically, sadly. "You're dead?" Sweeney asked.

"It wasn't long after you left," he said simply. But how, why? Sweeney was almost sure it had some connection to his escape.

Before he could ask any questions, Sweeney saw more shadowy figures emerge before him, appearing to run quickly and with purpose. Their clarity slowly materialized as the shadows before did. First their definite shapes came, then their color, and finally the details of their faces. Sweeney immediately recognized the first man: himself, almost the same as he looked before he died, with his wild, untamed mane of black wire and a white streak. He cringed, remembering why how he became marked with the obscurity. The first night in prison, a guard bludgeoned him in the head, at that exact spot. He supposed that the years of prolonged torment after that changed his hair color to its contrasting white. Beside him was Tom, running beside him, covering Sweeney with a thick, ragged black blanket. The real Sweeney and Jonathon seemed to glide, following them on their journey. The figures stopped at a manhole cover, the rocky cliffs leading into the ocean in close distance, blocked by a barbed wire gate.

"So remember, the lifeboat is just outside the sewer dumping. Just head inside of the manhole cover, and travel 500 feet. You'll be there soon, but remember, don't make a sound; the watch tower must not detect your appearance. The other port should be one hundred mile north. Go hurry!" Tom and Sweeney in joint effort lifted the manhole cover, and Sweeney crawled inside. He looked up at Tom, and gave a nod goodbye, before disappearing underground. Tom quickly covered the hole. He squatted beside it for several moments before rising. He turned around and began to jog back. Out from behind another door, two other guards came out with batons, and began to bludgeon Tom in the head. They shouted "Where is he?" over and over again, continually beating poor Tom until he was bruised and bloodied completely. Then they pressed him against the wall. A stoutly guard, decorated with multiple badges cruelly placed with intensive care across his chest. His suit was darker, cleaner, shaper, reflecting the man himself. He was different from the other guards, obeying, stupid, and violent; he was the embodiment of the cruelty of men, of the darkness of the soul, and the mercilessness of the heart. The man's name was General Gordon Braxton, and Sweeney remembered every haunting, demonic deed he ever did. He walked quietly and with purpose, slapping his leather glove in his open palm over and over. A menacing grin crawled over his face life ominous bug.

"Put him up against the wall," he said coldly and without feeling, his smug voice stunning Sweeney's stomach. He remembered that voice, the one that welcomed him to his future abode so courteously. The two guards pressed Tom against the wall, its old blood stains meeting his warm, beaten flesh. He moaned in pain, weakened by the contact of metal against his bones. General Braxton chuckled in his struggle. He slowly uncoiled a long, thin whip, and twisted it around his hand.

"Where is he?" he asked.

"Who are you talking about?" Tom asked, attempting not to show any emotion between his groan. General Braxton flung the whip high above his head, and brought it down upon Tom's back with great force. The snap of the whip echoed, as well as Tom's cries of agony.

"You know damn well who! Where is he?!" he shouted, bringing the whip down on Tom's back three more times. Tom screamed, but did not give in to the brute force. He lifted his head weakly, his eyes sinking, knowing what fate was ahead of him.

"I-I don't k-know who you're t-talking about," he said, stuttering out of weakness. He closed his eyes, bracing for more lashing, but none followed. Braxton smirked inhumanly; the shadows covering his eyes in a way that made him appear more animal-like than anything else. He slowly, deliberately, rolled up the whip, and placed it in its handle on his belt. Then he reached into his holster to pull out his pistol.

"Such disloyalty," he said gruffly, almost silently. He pulled the trigger. The shot was followed by the sounds of waking prisoners. Tom's body jerked, and froze. His eyes widened, the impact of the bullet to his head forcing him into an eternal awakened expression. The General placed the pistol into his holster. "Send him to the dogs," he ordered the other two guards, who only nodded in agreement. Sweeney's blood boiled in anger, his fists tightened, ready to beat the life out of the General. He screamed loud and long as he lunged at the figure. It proved to be useless, however, as his hand simply passed through the General as if he punched through smoke. The figures began to turn smoky, decreasing in clarity. The last thing they appeared to show was the General turning back through the door which he walked through, and the two guards dragging Tom's limp body through the corridor. Sweeney continued to shout; he longed to bring his razor down on the General's throat, longed to rip him apart.

"Benjamin, it's useless, don't."

"My name is Sweeney Todd!" he shouted in total rage. "And his soul shall be cursed forever, that monster! He deserved my razor!" Sweeney panted, and collapsed onto the ground. He once shouted so tirelessly years ago, for the Judge, almost every night for three months. After that, he hardly ever spoke. The fervor of murder filled his system, but his body (did he even have a body?) could not move from his kneeling position. He panted, longing to hold his precious friends once again, but they were no longer there to bring him comfort. He felt Tom's strong hands hold his shoulders and help him up.

"Come walk with me, I have much to tell you."


	6. The Second Lesson

**Yea, new chapter! And finals are done tomorrow! Which means...quicker updates So ya, I'm guessing I like this chapter because it's optimistic, but not for long. Sweeney is in purgatory after all, and some struggle must happen. MUAHAHAHA!! oh, I'm so evil to my characters. BTW, parden it's lack of length in comparison to the last one. My chapters will be subject to various lenths. Anywhoo, hope you enjoy this with...the...GOODIE OF THE DAY: M & M mcflurry! wow, I'm animated today. Oh, well, I'm just glad school's out. Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: yes, I own Sweeney Todd, sinse I am, in fact, God, and I say that Sweeney's MINE!**

The two walked together down the gray, cold corridor with no other voices to accompany them, no other shadows creeping along the walls beside them. It felt awfully awkward; Sweeney never considered Tom as a friend, though he held him with high respect for his courage and dedication. Tom did not seem show any apprehensiveness; on the contrary, he appeared quite calm and sagely. They did not speak for some minutes, but simply walked throughout the prison. It felt incredibly eerie to return to Botany Bay after all of these years. The placidness of the place was overcrowded with the haunting memories of what happened there. It was almost as if looking at a freshly dead body; there is nothing to fear of it, but one cannot help but be afraid. They passed by the loading docks, the kitchen, and the main offices. The sky above was as gray as the stone walls. There was no breeze, no sounds of gulls calling, no crashing of the waves, and no heat of the summer sun. The skeleton of the cell blocks loomed in the distance. The last thing Sweeney wanted was to enter the God forsaken barracks. Finally, he spoke.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"Because you saved my life. I suppose that's a big impact," Sweeney replied quietly. Tom smiled.

"Much more than such." Tom patted his arm on Sweeney's back, and they continued to walk. Sweeney was taken slightly aback when he suddenly realized that he did not feel Tom's hand contact with his back. He tried to breathe, and found that he couldn't. He placed his hand over his heart, but it did not beat for him. For the first time since this journey began, he saw that he was truly dead, no longer a living, breathing body, but a simple lost soul. He suddenly became more aware of his settings than ever before, questioning their reality. He wasn't really in prison, even though he saw the stone floor against his feet, and he wasn't really wearing these clothes, even though he knew that they were of rough texture. Finally, they stopped in the open courtyard, more of a shabby patch of earth than a quad. He saw them again, the shadows, as numerous as before, meticulously walking along the rocky open area. As their smoky outlines defined in shape, he saw them as disgusting, malicious people. Their faces were horribly demonic and twisted their clothes asymmetrical and dark, brooding colors. Many men carried rapiers or long pistols, and the women carried umbrellas, torn and sharpened like a knife on the end. Their faces filled with hatred, cruelty, and evil, each of their eyes as black as the endless abyss that he was trapped in before. It was so strange, yet so familiar. He recalled the real world, and noticed that this was a slightly exaggerated version of what it really was: bleak and unpitying. These men and women looked the same as they always appeared to him, only their personalities shown on the outside even more than they used to. He thought it was because he could see them for who they really were, for what the world really was. "What do you see, Sweeney?" Tom asked.

"Grim, ugly, evil," he said, spite icing his words. "I see who they truly are, what men truly are; vile, cruel, and merciless."

"To you they may be. My picture of them is a little different," he said. Tom waved his hand in front of Sweeney's face, as if he was wiping cobwebs off a wall. The scene evolved in a way that Sweeney could only describe as beautiful. The gray left the scenery, and replacing it was the whole spectrum of colors. The clouds cleared from the sky, revealing the warm Australian sun, casting its inviting rays upon the people. The barren rock began to sprout grass and flowers of all shapes and sizes. The men and women refined themselves; their hair tamed down, their clothes sharper and of finer material, and their faces softened, becoming kindly and wise. A tingling breeze tickled Sweeney's skin, and he could hear the distant sounds of finches' humming and the crashing shore. Like peeling away a layer of dirt, the canvas displayed a beautiful and perfect picture, full of color and life and love. Sweeney remembered seeing his life in a similar way, where there was a God in heaven and everything made perfect sense. He had almost forgotten what such a view of the world looked like. Seeing nothing but gray and hate and suffering for fifteen years had clouded his vision. He felt comfort for a brief instant, but remembered that this was a foolish way of looking at the earth.

"Nothing can be this perfect, Tom," he said. "Belief that the world is a utopia doesn't give you wisdom."

"And a grim view of life does? You didn't seem very wise after you returned home." Sweeney was offended by this comment. How he dare judge me, he thought. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized the meaning. Was he really wise? Did his ideas bring truth, or only a cloud of confusion and immorality? Sweeney was no longer sure what to believe anymore.

"Wisdom does not come from just enjoying a perfect life or suffering a sorry one; it is gained through the knowledge of both. One cannot know truth unless one knows the whole spectrum of life. Learn this now: there is no true goodness or true evil. Man was not created evil, but good. Very few choose to avoid goodness completely, far fewer than you think. Do you know why you will have to see each of your persons die?"

"No." He didn't want to see any more death, especially in those to come that he might know.

"Each of our deaths affected your life, both in good ways and in bad. Seeing each of us die will hopefully bring reason to your life."

"But what good came out of your death?"

"You lived."

"But General Braxton wasn't punished, and neither were any of the other heartless guards. Aren't they all true evil?"

"Was I?" Sweeney did not expect this question.

"I am your second person because my death shows you that no one is created as completely evil, only some choose it. I once felt accomplishment, even pleasure in tormenting prisoners such as you. But then I heard your story, and for whatever reason, I saw what I was doing, and felt ashamed. So you see, even in a 'heartless guard' such as me, there is goodness. Life is not about punishment, but forgiveness." Had all of his work been in vain then? Had all of Sweeney's days of murder the supposed "evil of the world" been merely an act of selfishness and anger rather than justice, as he always told himself it was for? He never really felt any pleasure from murder, only obligation. The only men he really wanted dead were the Beadle and Judge Turpin, so why did he even need to kill anyone else? This concept never seemed to cross his mind in his blind rage for revenge, and yet now it made perfect sense. Only, he had been so numb from grief and so empty from loss that this idea didn't seem important.

"But what of General Braxton, and Judge Turpin, what is their outcome?"

"They chose evil, complete, unadulterated evil. So they shall see their consequences."

"But…am I not completely evil. My record isn't exactly clean."

"No it isn't, but it isn't completely dirty either. Don't you remember your love for Lucy and Johanna? That is what saved you. That is why there are few people who are truly malicious: very few reject love and goodness completely. You chose love for your family, and that is what has brought you to redemption rather than eternal torment. Those men did not love: Turpin may have had feelings for women, but no love, only lust and cruel intentions. Braxton had no pity, no remorse, and what's worse, he enjoyed his work." They walked through the crowd, who began to tip their hats and politely greet Sweeney and Tom. Sweeney nodded, remembering the feeling of being greeted kindly. Once he was Sweeney, no one on the streets ever said hello. Or was it only because he had been blinded to kindness? He decided to accept their hellos.

"Is that a smile I see?" Tom asked. Sweeney touched his lips, and noticed that he was indeed, smiling. His heart softened slightly. As they cleared through the crowd, he saw a door ahead of him, his next destination. It was a white, simple door, and just standing there without a wall behind it. The turquoise, breaking ocean cliffs served as its backdrop.

"This is where you go, and where I stay," Tom said warmly. Sweeney turned to him and shook his hand. Suddenly, a realization hit him.

"I never thanked you for saving my life," he said.

"No need, you're dead now," Tom said, chuckling at himself. He gave a quick bow of his head and stepped back. The crowd turned to see Sweeney departing, and began to wave goodbye. He heard them calling his name and wishing him, all with warm smiles on their face. He smiled again. How wonderful it felt to smile again. He gave them all a small bow with his head, opened the door, and stepped into his next place of reconciliation.


	7. The Third Person

**Yeah, part 7. I've noticed my chapters are beginning to get shorter and shorter. For this, I apologize greatly. I've also noticed this seems like a ripoff of TFPYMIH. For this too, I apologize. I'm trying my best, but I guess I'm slipping as a writer just a tad. maybe the Goodie of the Day: golden spoon frozen yogurt, will cheer you and I up.**

**Disclaimer: nope, don't own, as usual (someday, though).**

The white abyss melted away as usual; Sweeney was even beginning to become used to the whole process. This time, after the cacophony and blend of colors faded, he found himself in a tawdry hospital room. He could only surmise that his third person died here. And what a terrible place to die to: lit by only a few candles, the dirty room contained a single bed with coarse and itchy fabric that was no excuse for a blanket, a shelf of medicine, and a dinky little window that was high on the walls. Sweeney attempted to smell, but found that he couldn't breathe, though he could taste the mildew and unwashed linen that left the room with an awful stench. There was the one door that he passed through behind him. He opened it, revealing the deserted and dark corridor of the rest of the hospital. He saw a shabby sign at the end of the hall: "London Memorial Hospital" it read. Of course, where else in the world could there be a hospital as dilapidated as this one. He scoffed at the neglect that the owners of the hospital gave to both the building and its occupants. He traveled down the hallway, hoping to find his third person. He searched the adjacent room to his, and opened it to find as empty and identical as the one before. He tried the room across the hallway, which appeared as an exact clone to the other two: empty and neglected. The other rooms all produced the same results. There is something undeniably creepy about an empty hospital, especially one that is broken down and weary. Death lingered everywhere in this place, though there appeared to be no one in sight. Even with the forsaken atmosphere, Sweeney couldn't help but feel like he was being watched. Hoping to find a way out, he scanned the halls, but there appeared to be no other doors or windows indicating a front exit or second floor. It looked like he would have to wait here.

He flinched when he could have sworn that he heard a small clack upon the tile floor. He spun around, anticipating what he might see behind his back. To his surprise, and apprehension, no man or woman stood before him; the only thing in the hallway was his chair. _The_ chair. The malicious, haunting, enticing chair that stood beside him for a whole year sat down the corridor from him, staring at him, calling him. Sweeney's stomach tightened thinking about it. His whole world revolved around the contraption, it ruined him, a friend who denied and betrayed him. His brief moment of nostalgia turned into resentment for the mechanical monster. Clink, another noise sounded. He turned towards the sound, but found nothing. He started walking away from the chair, dying to leave the tempting plush machine. He stepped on something hard and thin on the floor, almost certain that it was what made the noise. He stepped his foot back to see what it was, and stared in horror when he saw it. It was his largest friend, shinier and more beautiful than ever before. Even in the dim light it shone brighter than it ever did before, enticing him with its intricate carvings and exquisite silver handle. Did he dare pick it up? Waves of joy flew through him; for what seemed like years he had been without a friend, and he felt wonderment as he held it delicately, flipping it open with a ring. He felt so close to this beautiful object, more so than he ever felt close to a human being in many years. But suddenly, the temporary feeling of his conscience rose in him. Was this not the same friend that also deceived him? Didn't it also leave him cold, empty, and most of all, dead? Though both of his old friends still gave him warmth and pleasure, the effect was no longer as strong as it used to be. Still, they gave him what little comfort they could in this lonely and empty place. For the first time since he began his journey, he felt something that he could feel close to.

"Having a happy reunion?" a deep, booming sound asked. The voice surprised him greatly; after what seemed like hours in total silence, the sound of a human voice made him swear that he saw stars. He so longed to pant, but no breath was needed anymore, and therefore not used. He whipped around to see who the man was. The voice was vaguely familiar, but still very foreign to him, like a dream that he dreamt years ago. Turning around, he saw someone who truly was unforgettable: it was Albert Lovett.

"Mr. Lovett? What are you doing here?" he asked confused. Out of everyone that could be his third person, why did have to be him? He always detested the man, almost as much as he detested his wife. _Mrs. Lovett_. He had almost forgotten about her. He quickly pushed his thoughts of her out of his mind. Albert smiled stupidly, his plump frame larger than he remembered it. Just as unflattering was his ridiculous moustache that looked like a bushy ferret on his face. He remembered the first day that he met him, when he and Lucy bought the room above the pie shop. Though he thoroughly enjoyed their home, he never liked Mr. Lovett. He was loud, corny, obnoxiously annoying, the kind of man who would ruin a good party. He couldn't imagine what he could possibly learn from this man, what life-changing lesson that he had to teach him. As far as he was concerned, Mr. Lovett did not affect his life in any way, shape, or form, and Sweeney was certain that he didn't affect his.

"Why I'm your third person of course! Haven't you caught on to any pattern yet, silly man?" he said in a voice louder than necessary. He was dressed ridiculously in a hospital gown. Oh, God, a hospital gown. Sweeney prayed that Mr. Lovett would not turn around.

"So…is this where you died?" Sweeney asked awkwardly, hoping to change the subject.

"Sure is! Look in the room behind you, there I am, dead asleep…literally!" he said, laughing at his own poor humor. Sweeney looked in the room behind him, and there he was, asleep in his bed. What did his death teach him again? "Yep, died of a heart attack, I did!" he said. Of course, Sweeney thought. "Anywhoo, did you have fun meeting your friends once again?"

"It was…nostalgic," he said more honestly than he wanted to. The last thing he wanted was to reveal his true ideals and feelings to his oaf. But at least he was telling the truth; it was nostalgic. He longed for things to be simple once more, when he had the chair and his razors and nothing else mattered. They once meant everything to him, gave him what little happiness he felt in the world. Now, their effect was no longer the same; the no longer gave him the same joy he used to feel, but they still gave him some warm comfort. "So, what do you have to teach me?" he asked. He wanted this over as soon as possible.

"Well, that's not something I can simply tell, but something I have to show you. Isn't that what everyone else did? You should learn faster, Benjamin."

"My name is Sweeney Todd, Mr. Lovett," he said coldly. His identity was most important to him still, and he wanted Mr. Lovett to be sure of it. Tom said the same thing before, but not Jonathon. Was there any meaning to what name they called him, or was it just what they were used to calling him? Whatever the reason was, he was becoming irritated with the use of his old, naive name.

"Oh, well, I suppose I should learn to catch on better," he said. "Come, I suppose I should show you your lesson right about now, shouldn't I?" He gestured towards the chair, sitting in the dim glow of the lanterns. It was only then that Sweeney realized that he was clutching his razor so tightly that his knuckles were white.


	8. The Third Lesson

**helloeverybodyhi! anywhoo, happy fathers day. In case you haven't noticed that I'm not very original with my chapter titles, but it's just easier for me to organize them this way (plus, it's much more to the point isn't it?). I've resurrected my love for the phantom of the opera, a movie I haven't seen in forever, so I'm listening to the soundtrack nonstop (even now). anywhoo, enjoy your Goodie of the Day: key lime pie.**

Though the distance between him and the chair was short, he felt as if the hallway was beginning to strech, distancing himself from the metal beast. He clutched the razor ever tighter, praying that his friend would deliver its comforting warmth to his hand and his soul. Even if it could, though, he could no longer feel heat or breath or wind. His razor's calls, which used to shout cries of true hope and ease, now only whispered words of false truth and love. How could they be doing this, how could they abandon him now, when he needed their voices more than ever? Had his death caused them to abandon him for good? The chair merely rested quietly in the desolate, dim hallway, like a great beast waiting in a dark cave. Mr. Lovett's hand on Sweeney's shoulder did nothing to help; it only drew him back to a reality in which other human beings existed. He wanted so bad to return to a world in which Turpin, Johanna, and Lucy were the only humans on the whole planet, return to a world in which his greatest joys and relief were satisfied by the inanimate, by the imaginary. But after all that he had seen, he knew that the same connection would never be. He used to only think of that Trio of Humans, but now so many more faces flooded his mind: Jonathon, Tom, Albert, those countless humans whose throats he healed, and _her, _who he didn't even want to think about now. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to care about these people; he only wanted life to be simple and pure once more. However, when faced with such vicissitudes, it becomes impossible to grasp the life one once felt before.

Change slowly crept upon the plush monster before him; thick, oozing streaks of crimson beauty emerged from the pores of the lush material, as well as from the handcrafted curves of the wood. It was beautiful, like it always had been, but it no longer placed a trance upon him. He heard a drip, and looked to see, but not feel, the same luscious drops of blood emerging from the delicate yet deadly handles. Like the mass of people he first saw, the blood from them formed thick, reflective puddles along the floor. He peered into the mirror-like surface of the pool next to him, only to find his features oddly distorted, yet the rest of the scenery behind him, and Mr. Lovett, were perfectly clear. Sweeney's lines were smudged, almost like the shadows just before their clarity full ensued. His face constantly changed, but never defined a definite shape, almost like water color paint that didn't want to settle on the canvas.

"Don't you wonder why I'm here?" he said, loudly and deeply once more, but with more serious tone in his voice. Sweeney didn't answer, only nodded slightly; he was so entranced by his reflection in the blood that he barely heard Albert anyway. "Who gave you this chair?" he asked. _'Twas me poor Albert's chair…_

"And who gave you these razors?" he asked. Sweeney nodded slowly. He suddenly recalled his first Christmas morning with the Lovetts. He and Lucy were sleeping soundly, dreaming of the happy day the extended a cordial invite to them. He almost groaned when he remembered how the Lovetts rudely intruded them that morning shouting "Happy Christmas!" as loudly as possible. He remembered opening Mr. Lovett's present, not expecting it to be anything interesting, but it was. A six set of pure silver razors, more beautiful than any barber instrument that he ever encountered. It was to help him start his business, give customers a better impression of him. Sweeney suddenly realized then, and was now reminded once again, that Mr. Lovett, though annoying, was a genuinely caring and generous man.

"These were both from me, gifts for goodness and happiness. Only now I see how you truly used them," he said his voice at the same volume, but increasing in grimness. "I supplied them, but it was for you to determine how to use them. So don't you see? I supplied you with everything you needed to jumpstart your 'career,'" he said in a tone that Sweeney could almost swear was mocking. The meaning of Mr. Lovett's presence here came to light, and made perfect sense; he had changed his life completely in a way that he never thought about. He felt a slight pang of, what was it…guilt. Guilt? Sweeney was never supposed to feel guilt, he was never supposed to forget, never supposed to forgive, and especially never supposed to regret. Still, he felt bad for Mr. Lovett, knowing now after his death the monster behind the man that he created, knowing what horrors his devices of generosity only led to death and hate.

To Sweeney's curiosity, another shadowy, smoky, figure appeared, seated in the barber's chair. It wasn't long before it displayed its definite form; it developed clothes, hands, arms, and legs, and finally a head. He could see it was a man, but unusually, he had no face, no distinguishable features like eyes or a mouth. It was quite possibly the strangest sight he had ever seen. The shape did not move, only waited, as if he was a customer in need of a shave. His throat was open and pale as sin. He tilted his head back against the headrest, tapping his fingers against the arms of the chair. Sweeney felt a twitch in his hand which held the razor, craving for one last chance to unleash its deadly powers. It kept twitching, itching, wanting nothing but the feeling of warm flesh.

"Could you still do it, Sweeney?" Mr. Lovett said, emphasizing his name in attempt to make sure he said the correct one. The temptation was overwhelming, almost too easy to give into. Here was his chance to give into his darker side once more, a chance to return to the mindset which he was more comfortable with. But he noticed that it was not his hand that twitched for blood, but rather the razor he held. Though he himself longed to murder this faceless man, the razor longed for it more. Sweeney approached the unnamed man and held his razor high, ready to swing it down upon the man's throat, but suddenly stopped. Was this what he really wanted? Did it even really matter to kill this man? He thought of the room of bloody men, women, and children. He thought of the crowd that turned from wicked to beneficent. This man wasn't evil, was he? Hell, he isn't even really a man, Sweeney thought. Suddenly, he realized why this man appeared without a face; he represented all of the men he murdered, not caring who they were or what they did in life, only there to be disposed of by Sweeney's demonic instincts. He lowered his razor, which still twitched furiously, angered by its denial of blood. The figure in the chair disappeared, leaving Sweeney and Albert alone once more. "Why didn't you do it?"

"I-I just…didn't see the need to," he said, trying in his mind to come up with a more meaningful response.

"But he was there, and you had everything you needed, did you not," Albert said grandly.

"Yes, but…I just chose not to," Sweeney said, irritated by how pathetically weak he must sound. Albert simply smiled.

"Then you now know why I'm here," he said. Sweeney looked at him confused. "I gave you everything you needed for your 'career', you had all the tools then and now, but you _chose_ the path that brought you here. The same principal applies now; here's everything you needed, but this time, you chose the path of goodness. Fate lays out two paths for us, and we choose which one to take. There is no destiny, and there is no obligation to the future."

"But wasn't I meant to be a monster?" Sweeney asked.

"You didn't have to be, you chose your path in life," Albert retorted. "Once more, I will ask you, what path shall you choose?" Again, a figure like solid smoke materialized before him in the barber's chair. The figure developed clothes that looked tantalizingly familiar, and a body that he began to feel anxious about. But when his face fully developed, his heart and body swelled with rage and hatred; it was Judge Turpin, pale as Persephone as as repulsive as before. He smirked at Sweeney, mocking him with contempt even in death, the same look on his face as the day he sentenced Sweeney to life in Botany Bay. He sat in the chair as if he knew what Sweeney would do, as if he had a point to prove. The razor no longer twitched: it nearly jolted out of his hand. Sweeney's Dark Guidance filled him with a unadulterated loathing. Oh, how he so longed for this moment once more. Last time, he felt rushed with his murder, and caught off-guard. Now, he could truly sink in the moment; truly feel Turpin's pain as he struggled under his razor. "Which path will you choose?" Albert said once again, and suddenly, Sweeney felt like a great hooked grasped his stomach and pulled him back to reality. He already had his revenge, didn't he? But no, it wasn't enough, it was never enough, he told himself. But some unknown voice, faint yet noticeable, echoed in his mind. It seemed to compel him to let Turpin go, but another part of him only thirsted for blood. Every feeling he had ever experienced seemed to swirl through his mind right now. What did he really want? What a question; it seemed to be the only question worth asking right now, but unfortunately did not make sense. Did what he want not really matter, but what was right? What was moral anyway? Turpin was evil, rotting away in the bowls of Hell, tormented in darkness day and night forever and ever. Shouldn't he deserve to feel his blade once again, and pay once more for his evils? Or was forgiveness the moral thing to do and not justice? The confusion in his mind made Sweeney feel weak. The razor longed, wanted,_ demanded_, to be raised, to be brought down on Turpin's deserving throat, but Albert's words were sinking in. _What path shall you choose?_ On one path was brief happiness, followed by the eternal emptiness of loss and possibly a fate worse than purgatory. The other led to forgiveness, to morality, to Lucy, but no triumph. But…in choosing goodness, wasn't that triumph over Turpin? To be able to choose the path of love and forgiveness, which Turpin never chose, didn't that place Sweeney at a level higher than him? With a force greater than he thought he possessed, Sweeney through his deceiving friend over Turpin's head, crashing it against the wall of the hospital hall. He panted, staring at Turpin dead in the eye. The figure had no expression, but simply disappeared slowly from sight. Soon, the chair also disintegrated, and once that had, he saw a silver glint on the floor fade into nothingness.

"You chose well," Albert said, but Sweeney barely heard him. He could hardly believe what he just accomplished, what he just overcame. He won. Somehow, someway, he triumphed against his Dark Guidance, his demons. Or had he completely? Part of him wished that his conscience would abandon its guard, but it didn't matter anymore; Turpin would never haunt his nightmares anymore, if he could even dream here. He didn't feel numb; he felt…relief, as if a great weight was lifted off of his back. He knew that he passed the test, and he was one step closer to Lucy. _Lucy._ How he longed to hear her voice once again, to hold her close and tell her that he loved her. But he remembered that there were still four more people he had yet to visit, and Lucy might not even be one of them.

Albert Lovett stretched out his hand. "Until we meet again," he said. Sweeney shook his hand and bid him goodbye. Mr. Lovett gestured to the door that Sweeney originally entered from. It opened without any hand's guidance, revealing once more a white void. Sweeney noticed that the hospital appeared to glow, turning away from its gloom and despair. He turned towards Albert and gave him one final goodbye nod before disappearing into the white abyss, the oak door closing behind him.


	9. The Fourth Person

**Hello, again! I guess I felt being slightly ridiculous and mean to Sweeney whilst writing this, idk. hope you like it, opens a tad different than the previous chapters. Anywhoo, I went to an English tea Restaurant today, so the Goodie of the Day is: blueberry scone w/ clottered cream & blackberry jam. **

Perfect serenity seemed to be the only words to describe the transitional stage he endured between his next people. This time, he decided not to fight the simple, empty silence that prevailed, and instead, only tried to absorb its tranquil grace. His mind spent too much time worrying and fighting everything that he knew about life; he now felt grateful to be somewhere where everything made sense, because nothing needed to have sense at all. He closed his eyes, trying to grasp the feeling of the room, absorbing the atmosphere to reflect his mind to such a state. He tried not to think of anything at all with great difficulty; no matter how hard he concentrated on the nothingness, his mind would briefly flash images of everything he had seen and repeat all the words that he had absorbed. He sighed in frustration, knowing that his mind would not quiet down. In order to distract his mind, he observed his clothing, something he neglected to do in the hospital. He noticed with great interest how much change affected him since his last surveillance. Now, his clothing was no longer brown, but a curiously dark gray and were worn with age and wear. His right leather shoe was cracked along the left side, and the noticed the bottom of the sole was beginning to wear from the seams. He stroked his hair, amazed by how much it resembled wire. Stroking it with his fingers, he noticed that it was much longer and its shade was much darker than before. Still, he saw that his white streak had not yet emerged. He lifted his right arm to observe his jacket, seeing it possessed the same shade of dark gray. Sweeney winced, and felt a long, sharp pain down his shoulder. Of course, he remembered his long gash, his punishment for dropping General Braxton's laundry. Only after a month did it become a large, pink crevasse down his limb, numb. This mark felt fairly new, as if he was inflicted only yesterday.

He only had short nostalgic moments when the environment changed. However, it was not as before, with the slow, irritable sound of grinding and churning, but now sounded like the distant voices of a choir, or the echo of a cool wind. Not definite shapes formed around him, only the beautiful swirls of every color imaginable. The world felt like a dream, perfectly visible, yet not quite solid. He was enraptured by the serenity, hypnotized by the serene beauty. Sweeney felt as if the whirl of color of would sweep him away, carrying him into the wind to leave the world. He could not comprehend what sort of a place this was, or how anybody could die here, unless they were under opium. His curiosity couldn't overcome his delight in the weightless atmosphere. The outlying calls of the singing choir didn't cry words or any distinguishable phrases; their voices were just as swirled as the rainbow he was encompassed by. He wasn't sure who they were singing to, or even if it was people really singing. Was this heaven? It couldn't possibly be; where was Saint Peter calling his name? Where was the definite truth and ecstasy of complete goodness? While this place almost felt like heaven, nothing made sense, and he was still himself. Which brought another question to mind; where was his fourth person? He saw no other people in this infinite cycle of color and sound, only the swirling mist of blissful wonder.

The color slowly changed; it no longer blended aimlessly as would spilt water color, but several different shades seemed to collect at one central point. Most of this confusing sky remained indifferent except for what appeared to be a spiral of different shades blending to form some sort of a definite shape. It started slow, a simple tall, cylinder-like figure, spinning with the spiral in a dizzying tornado of color. The cylinder molded, denting everywhere and collecting the colors to several locations; brown shades near the top and white below. Unusual colors, which Sweeney could only describe as peach-like, dotted random areas of the figure. It was similar in how the prior shadows evolved to form different people, yet this transformation was far more beautiful and inviting, rather than haunting. He could only conclude that this was his fourth person. The shape was about two feet shorter than him; a child of some sorts. Where exactly he was and why his person was appearing to him this way was a mystery; none of his other persons revealed themselves in this manner. Before, they and their worlds materialized in a definite way, making everything clear and simple. The change was welcoming, if not slightly uncomforting; he could only wonder who this person could be.

Finally, the figure's outline and features became clearly characterized, still swirling in a brilliance of light and color. He first noticed the child's long, wavy chestnut hair flipping as she spun her was around the tornado of beauty. She her skin glowed warmly, neither pale nor tan, but a beautiful shade in between. She wore a simple, cotton white dress that draped to her knees and small white shoes with knee high white socks. She slowly stopped spinning, and the spiral rose into the air, disappearing into the unchanged idle mixture of sky. The young girl stopped and smiled. Sweeney did not know the child, but she was certainly the most fascinating creature that he had ever met. She was completely different from any human he had ever encountered; her skin shined in such an even, perfect way that it appeared to have never been touched by the outside world, like a porcelain doll that only sat on a shelf. Her shiny, thick hair clung to her back perfectly, not a speck of frizz dotted its curved surface. Her bright blue eyes seemed to change colors, from sky-blue to deep twilight, from innocent to wise. Though she had the physique of a child, her face seemed ageless. Sweeney didn't know whether or not she was younger than seven or older than twenty; her face possessed all of the wise kindness of an adult, yet was as perfectly unblemished and sweet as a child. She smiled at him, displaying her full grown set of the most perfectly straight and white teeth he had ever seen. She seemed oddly familiar, though he knew that he had never seen the girl before in his life.

"Hello," she said in a voice as soft as water. Her voice was neither that of a child nor of an adult. It was only as clear and inviting as the cool air. There was no distinguishable accent in her voice, as if she never heard the sound of another person's voice. Whatever it reason, Sweeney thought it was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard, like the soft singing of the wind and the current of a river.

"Hello," was all that Sweeney could answer to her; he was too fascinated by this unusually perfect, ageless creature before him.

"I'm your fourth," she said. The words could have belonged to a young child, but again, her voice did not match her appearance. She giggled a wonderfully human, yet undeniably alien laugh, one that seemed other worldly. She held out her hand to him, which he grasped. Her skin was as soft as butter, yet her grip was as strong as a man's. She grabbed his hand and dragged him along, appearing as if she was in hurry. She semi-pulled him along the empty space, reminding him of so many children who dragged their mothers across town in unknown excitement. He couldn't help but faintly smile; she reminded him a child he longed to call his own. She resembled someone he knew, but couldn't quite put a finger on who. Still, the slight familiarity made him comfortable around her. "Don't you hear them?" she asked jubilantly. His ears focused on the voices. They were no longer mumbled calls of the angels, but distinguished as the talking and singing of one man and woman.

"Who are they?" he asked in a way he would speak to a child. She giggled, as if she knew the answer, and thought it funny that Sweeney didn't know. He wasn't sure what took over him, but he suddenly felt the urge to joke along with the little girl. "Could it be…you?" he asked smiling. She giggled harder.

"No silly! Take another guess," she said in a way that sounded as if it came from an overly excited adult rather than a child. Why was she so familiar to him? He grew irritated with the thought, but continued to play along with her game.

"I don't know, tell me," he said politely.

"It's you and Lucy, silly goose," she said. Sweeney suddenly know longer felt in the mood to joke with her. "It's both of you whispering," she said in a way that, again, seemed like she thought he should know. Now he was only confused, and eyed the girl with curious caution.

"Who are you?" he asked defensively. He grew apprehensive of the girl.

"I don't have a name," she said sadly. "But don't you have a name for me?" she asked. Now he was really confused.

"Um…Rebecca?" he asked. She smiled contently with the name.

"Thank you, cuz now I'm not dead unnamed," she spoke with felicity, yet he was slightly haunted by the voice that spoke those words; it brought him back to the unpleasant reality.

"Who are you?" he asked again.

"I'm Rebecca, your forth person, silly," she said.

"No, I mean, _how_ do I know you?" he asked, growing impatient with the endless guessing. Her next words were different than before; they were professional, serious, like an adult's. Still, she maintained that simple, child-like quality about her.

"I'm your daughter," she said seriously. Sweeney blinked, unable to really understand the words.

"You-you can't be, I only have J-Johanna," he retorted defensively, growing more and more apprehensive of the child before him. She held a serious face, her eyes longing for him to understand. He glanced at her fair, beautiful skin and pure, wide eyes which reminded him so much of Lucy. He traced her long, wavy chestnut hair which so resembled his. Deep in his heart, he knew that it couldn't be anyone else's child. But how? When? Unless…Lucy was unknowingly pregnant when he was taken away. And the poison Lucy drank…

"Oh, God," he whispered. He covered his mouth, unable to speak. He stumbled backwards, numb with disbelief. He sank to the ground, horror and wonder filling his soul as he stared at his daughter who never saw the light of day, never grew to understand love and life. He wanted with all his heart to cry for his daughter, but he could produce no drops of sweet relief. He longed to hold her tight, but found himself unable to move. He sobbed quietly, listening as the voices from all around changed from pleasant singing to the distant sounds of screaming, of pain. Looking up, the colors in the chaotic sky turned from bright, lovely shades to off colors of brown and disgust. He saw Rebecca's wonderful face smiling sadly, yet confusingly; she had not yet experienced grief and could not comprehend Sweeney's feelings. She walked up to him and gave him a soft hug; he wrapped his strong arms around his daughter, holding her close to him. He stroked her soft hair, wanting to grasp the feeling. Lying in prison, he could only dream of moments to hold Johanna, happiness filling him each time. This time, however, holding Rebecca brought only despair. He had failed two daughters, and left Lucy alone to wallow in depression. He had failed Rebecca as a father. For this, he could never forgive himself. She sensed Sweeney's anguish, and lifted her head to speak to him.

"It was never your fault, how could anyone foretell this?" she said. With that, the long lost screams that surrounded them slowly began to die, and the sky grew ever darker, until it was nothing but a swirling mass of black and gray. There was empty silence that he or she couldn't quench with the sound of breath. Sweeney only wanted to hold her, protect her, and keep her safe from harm forever and ever. He knew that her death was not his fault, but he almost wanted to be blamed for it; he felt like that's how a caring father _should_ feel. Rebecca looked deep into Sweeney's onyx eyes, connecting with him closely. She seemed to be able to read his mind when she pierced his gaze with hers.

"How could you have known? You weren't responsible," she said, her voice soft and pure like a clear pool of water; it made Sweeney's stomach tighten.

"But I never…I didn't…I couldn't…I was so helpless," he said, unable to find the right words to say. He had so many questions for her, but exactly how to ask them was another matter entirely. Again, she seemed to sense his thoughts.

"What would you like to know?"


	10. The Fourth Lesson

**Yep, I hit the Chapter 10 mark. This chapter took so long to write, and I'm not completely satisfied to do it, but maybe that's because I'm super-excited about the next one. Anywhoo, summer is here (and never been better). So, your Goodie of the Day is...banana sundae! Enjoy your treat(for being such nice readers) and the story.**

Sweeney held Rebecca-his daughter-closely. Just hugging her as a father brought waves of pure love and joy, but also guilt and anguish that ripped his stomach. She was so soft and delicate, so child-like, so wonderfully innocent and caring that it killed him inside to think of what could have been. She could have lived a long, happy, wonderful life, but instead died a horrible unjust death. Still, he dreamed of having a daughter exactly like her; She amazed him with her felicity, a feeling he had been absent of all these years. His mind swirled with questions like the sky, which was no longer black and gray with the colors of the silent and suffocating death, but now soft blues and whites, suggesting serenity and peace. He longed to know everything about her, about her heaven, and her likes and dislikes(if she even possessed any), even if only to hear her gentle, melodic voice that couldn't have belonged to anyone else in the entire world. It felt like Benjamin Barker once more, when his days would be filled spending hours playing with Johanna. _Johanna_. He remembered with sadness that he was never able to see his daughter grown. While he lay in prison, he let his imagination wonder, dreaming of how she looked over the years. Eventually though, hope abandoned him, and his imagination ran cold. Once he became free, he could no longer dream; he lost any idea of what she and Lucy could have looked like. But standing here with Rebecca, living proof that he still had a family, he couldn't help but imagine once more. After what felt like several hours, but very well could have been only minutes, he finally asked a question.

"What is this place?" he asked, thinking it was simple enough to start off with.

"It's heaven for people like me," she said smoothly, her beautiful and unusually un-child-like voice seeming to echo in the otherwise empty atmosphere. He could only assume "people like me" meant the unborn souls, granted an otherworldy heaven. It was a beautiful, soothing place of rest, thought seemingly quite lonely.

"Where are the others, then?" he asked. He couldn't imagine heaven without ever encountering anyone else. Life on Earth was lonely enough for him; he didn't want to remain so in the afterlife-even in hell, his previously predicted destination.

"Oh, you can't see them, because you're a grownup, but I can!" she said excitedly. He strived for another question, hoping to prolong the time he needed with her before she gave him his lesson and departed from him.

"Why are you so…ageless?" he asked. It was the most curious thing he ever encountered, a characteristic that he couldn't help but stare at. He wanted to say she was a child-his child-but she could very well be a short woman based on her mature voice.

"I've never aged. How could anyone know what I might have looked like? I'm ageless because time never placed its mark upon me, and I never grew up," she stated simply. Never grew up. She never knew of the world, of life and love. She never gained wisdom, never knew of the vast knowledge the world possessed, and she never knew him or Lucy. He saw so much of his former self in her, the same simplicity and wonder in her eyes. He couldn't help but be in awe by her unspoiled perfection. He used to scoff at people like Rebecca, people who were ignorant and foolish, but only now did he see how wonderfully easy and happy life was without worries. Still, even though he knew this mindset may work for Rebecca, he knew that he could never live this way; once you learn the truths of the world, you can never go back to the life you knew before.

"What do you know?" he asked.

"About what?" she replied.

"About…life, the world, human beings," he said. He wasn't sure whether he should be happy or sad by her response.

"Well, I know how to speak, and play, and that you and mommy love me," she said smiling happily. "You do love me, right?" she said slightly unsure of herself. It was obvious that Sweeney's question confused her. It seemed like such a foolish, petty question now. What could she have possibly learned if she never existed; she probably only knew enough to properly address Sweeney.

"Of course I do, Rebecca," he said quietly. He paused to think; he did love her, but it was a strange kind of love, the kind of love by association, what binds family together. He never knew her before, yet he found that he loved her. This puzzled him; Sweeney, who was always careful with his relationships with other human beings, never loved someone on the spot, much less liked them. Or had he? Wasn't this the same love he had for Johanna?

Rebecca's eyes brightened as if she suddenly remembered something important that she needed to do. Sweeney knew what was coming, and didn't want it.

"Daddy?" she asked. Sweeney nodded, still adjusting to the idea of being called Daddy.

"Do you like yourself?" she asked. Sweeney felt a lump in his throat so large and so hard that he felt like he could choke. He dug right into the bottom of his soul, trying to find the answer to that question. He thought about all of his endless hours plotting revenge, pacing away in his damned shop, refusing to eat or sleep. He thought of those never-ending haunting memories and nightmares which consumed him and clouded his mind. He thought of his neglect for himself, only preoccupied with his thirst for blood and vengeance. And he suddenly realized how much he hated himself; he hated his existence, felt himself a necessary parasite, worth of Hades and hatred by others and himself. He didn't respond openly with his daughter; he didn't want her to see the monster behind the man. No, she can never know what really happened, he thought. Rebecca seemed confused by his silent response. She wasn't sure how to read his face, so she asked another question.

"Did you like your life?" she asked, delivering a heavy blow of reality. He never asked himself if what he had, what he thought, and what he desired was truly necessary; he always saw his work as necessary puposes to complete his revenge. Now, those purposes no longer seemed important, and all that was left was the true core of everything. Now that Judge Turpin was rotting in Hell, and he had Rebecca and maybe Lucy soon, those past grudges seemed like mere bad memories. He knew, however, that he could never erase his past sins and mistakes. Looking back, he saw his hateful, pessimistic view of the world and its entire people. He saw how he spent his time in chosen misery, relishing in his dark past and even darker present. He felt the lump in his throat tighten, almost strangling him of air. He began to breathe deeper and faster now. He held his head down in shame, refusing to show his tell-all eyes to his daughter.

"Life after Lucy, after Johanna, was only darkness. I was not a good person, Rebecca. You would have been ashamed to call me Father," he said sadly.

"Life didn't have to be sad," she said optimistically.

"It couldn't have been any other way."

"Nope. Don't you remember what your lady friend said?" she asked. _Life is for the alive, my dear_. His fists tightened in anger. "If you didn't want darkness, you just needed to choose light."

"Rebecca, after everything I've ever suffered, I don't think any one could have been optimistic about life."

"What about other people who've gone through bad times? Many of them have moved on to happy, joy-filled lives." Sweeney shook his head. He noticed that she didn't specify "bad times."

"I'm not like them," he said grimly.

"Only if you think that way; life is short, you need to make the most of it. No one lasts forever," she said. Especially you, Sweeney thought. "From what you've said, you didn't make the most of your life."

"Of course I did, I finished what I meant to do, didn't I?" he said, growing defensive once more.

"I mean, did you really live life well? Did you really make good use of your time?" she asked, and looked at him with a face that said, "Well?" Did he make the most of his life? Of course, he was granted his revenge. But at what cost; didn't he waste time wallowing in misery and unnecessarily killing innocent people? If he had done the deed sooner, wouldn't he still be alive, as well as Lucy? _We could have a life, us two. Maybe not like I dreamed, maybe not like you remembered, but we could get by_. Sweeney grew frustrated at the sound of Mrs. Lovett's words in his head, especially now that he realized that she was right. He should have finished his mission earlier, and maybe he could have had some piece of mind. Unfortunately, there was no way to ever know the consequences of those choices he never made; he could only accept his mistakes in life. Not only did he not complete what he meant to do without any sidetracks, but he never mended, never healed. It was just like what Rebecca said about those other people who were able to find goodness and love out of all the hatred thrown at them. He knew he should have been more forgiving, but that was no longer an option; time could not turn around.

"Rebecca, look at me; I'm a mess. I let my life and my ideals go to waste. I allowed the Dark Guidance to take over me; my life was a product of falsity and vengeance. It was worthless, I was worthless," he said sadly, his eyes brooding with sadness, black with grief over his lost life.

"There is always forgiveness," Rebecca said.

"Is that what this place is, redemption? What forgiveness can be given to me? I-" he halted, almost saying _I murdered people_. She could never know. "I was a bad man. I'm not worthy of second chances."

"Of course, Daddy. This place was made for second chances." The slowly walked with each other witout speaking, until finally, Rebecca asked another disturbing question.

"What's one thing you wish you could have done?" she asked. Sweeney pondered this question for several seconds.

"I wish I met Johanna. I wish I could have spoken to her e I'm speaking to you now."

"Would you at least like to see what she looks like?"

"I can't speak to her, or a vision of her or something?"

"You can only talk to people who are actually dead," she said. His heart lightened knowing Johanna was alive and safe. "But I can _show_ you her." In that instant, the swirling mass of shapeless clouds molded to actual shapes, growing dark and gray. With Rebecca at his side, a vision of a large ship appeared before him. He was on the deck, several unknown men surrounding them. They carried out mundane tasks such as checking ropes or moving cases, none of them appeared very appealing. The sky was cloudy and bleak, but a break of warm sunshine shown along the horizon. The cabin door opened and a couple holding each other revealed themselves. He immediately recognized the man as Anthony, holding a small girl with a bonnet covering her face, her whisps of curly, yellow hair blowing in the wind. He smiled knowing she had her mother's hair. Anthony began to speak to her, yet their words sounded indistinuishable, like words spoken underwater. Johanna responded with the same incomprehensible chatter. She quickly lifted her head and kissed Anthony. Her bonnet still covered half of her face, until she turned her face towards Sweeney. His eyes widened, and he felt sick once he saw her face. She was the sailor boy he almost killed.

"Johanna?" he whispered unbelieving. She looked just liked he dreamed she would, gorgeous and pale, but to his dismay, she also appeared sad and broken. She didn't notice him, and continued to converse with Anthony. He realized with horror the last of few words he said to her: forget my face. He was so blinded by darkness that he nearly killed his own daughter. If only he had waited, if only he could have contained his fury. Another truth hit him: Johanna never knew Sweeney was her father. How could she possibly forgive him? How could she live with herself if she knew the truth?

He longed to hold Johanna close, hoping, praying that she would forgive him. Still, she showed no apparent knowledge of his watchful gaze.

"Daddy, its time to go," Rebecca said. No, it couldn't be time, Sweeney thought. He tried to hold Johanna's hand, wanting to connect with his long lost daughter somehow. His resistance was futile; he felt an invisible hand pull him away from the scene. Anthony was clutching Johanna, and Rebecca joined thier side. The singing voices once again cried out, but this time in happy confusion. The sky swirled faster and faster, the chaos escalating and the colors turning lighter and lighter. He reached for them, wanting to spend an eternity longer with them, but time seemed to have other plans for them. Rebecca were smiling sadly, and waving goodbye, her figure, as those of Anthony and Johanna, began to slowly disappea as the churning colors disintegrated their figures. The scene became whiter and whiter, chaos ensuing faster and faster. He glanced behind him to see a pure white door open behind him only to reveal, once more, the endless white abyss waiting for him. He tried to call their names, but no voice was heard. He tried to scream, but it was no use. The door closed in front of him, and they were gone. The last thing he saw was Anthony kissing Johanna, and Rebecca smiling at him.


	11. The Fifth Person

**Yea, the fifth person! I wanted to do this person because I think too many people give the said character too much crap on Fanfiction(and also, I think the said character needed to see Sweeney). Like it or hate it, it is what it is. If you cooperate and read, your Goodie of the Day is...sugar cookies! and in honor of the Fourth of July...they have white frosting with red, white, and blue sprinkles! enjoy.**

**ps. i keep forgetting to do this, but I guess it's important so I don't get sued: yes, I do own Sweeney Todd, because I am, in fact, the Goddess of Musicals. Poof! Sweeney is mine.**

The emptiness mocked him, giving him no relief. He stared angrily at the white door he just passed through. He pounded on it, yanked the knob, and kicked it as hard as he could, but it was no use; it refused passage to Rebecca and Johanna. He felt sick to his stomach, and attempted to lie down, put he more or less merely fell to the "ground". He examined his appearance to see how much more he was rotting away. His clothes didn't look much different, just thinner and far grayer. He wasn't able to comb his hair with his fingers anymore; it now, more than before, resembled thick, black wire. Pulling out strands, he noticed several were the color of snow. He felt his face; it was rough and cold, thick lines covered his face. They were not wrinkles, but stress lines that hardened his features, which darkened the shadows around his eyes. His hands were coarse, full of hardened calluses, and pale as sin. He felt lethargic, almost dreamy. He wasn't sure if he could sleep in this place, or even if he needed to. Perhaps he was only exhausted from his encounters. He felt drained, as if the universe was toying with his mind, purging him of what he once knew and thought. He knew that he could never find himself until the ordeal was over.

He wasn't sure whether or not to call this experience an ordeal. Was it difficult and full of hardship? Yes, but it was also a rewarding, fulfilling journey. He had learned so much and saw so much of life in a different way, all the while traveling along the difficult route. He was now apprehensive of the future, but grateful for the past. So much about his life seemed to make more sense now, and the world seemed a less menacing place. But he could not still overcome his guilt and hatred over a handful of people, especially _her_. His fists tightened at the thought of Mrs. Lovett. How could she betray him so horribly; how could she lie so cruelly?

He didn't have long with his thoughts to himself, however. As before, the white around him began to disappear, replaced by the slowly materializing and melting colors, forming shapes and figures of all sizes. The screeching, deafening, grinding sound filled the atmosphere around him. He covered his ears, trying to drown out the cacophony that enveloped him. The room around his began to solidified, forming a square room with an unusually slanted wall, a grand window taking up most of the space. Wood flooring cracked into place, forming tight planks. The room was a cheery yellow, with brown pinstripes. A bed, a cradle, and other furniture dotted the room. Judging by the light coming from the window, it was twilight, but several candles lightened the room, giving it a calm appearance. He gasped when he realized what this room was: his barber shop, fifteen years ago. He was overcome with nostalgia. The room was so quaint, and so pretty, nothing like he knew it as now. He had almost forgotten that it once looked like a happy sanctuary rather than a grim reminder. The last thing he wanted while serving his second chance was to be placed right back where it all began, but here he was. Still, looking at the room the way it used to be made it far more tolerable. He traveled towards the window, the light of the closing day coating his skin. The view was wonderful; the buildings looked new and colorful, the air was clean and clear, and the sunset shown a beautiful orange against pink clouds. It was beautiful yet sad, disappointing to know that the room's atmosphere of optimism died. He wanted to breathe in the smell of the room, which always carried wafts of vanilla, but he knew that the gift of respiration had long left him. He chuckled morbidly to himself, realizing that a good sigh would work, too, but that was no longer possible. He turned his gaze back to the setting sun.

"It's beautiful, isn't it, Ben?"

Sweeney stiffened. He knew that voice, that sweet, wonderful voice that he had forgotten so long ago. He wept when he could no longer produce it in his head. He loved to hear it, to dwell in it, and he had been denied of it all these years. His whole body began to sweat, and he felt a trickle of sweat creep down his forehead. He turned his head more slowly than ever before. He longed to be confirmed that it was indeed her, yet didn't want the torment if he saw that it wasn't. His eyes gazed behind his increasingly large mass of black hair, straining to see past his wisps of wire. His shoulders turned to aid his repressed eyes. And then he saw her. Her golden, curly hair shown wondrously and her blue eyes shown with wonder as she gazed into his dark brown eyes. It took him a while to part his lips, and even longer for a voice to rise in his throat, until he forced out the name of the most beautiful woman in the world.

"Lucy," he whispered.

"It's always been beautiful," she said, smiling with all the joy that one could contain. Sweeney could hardly stand, yet alone speak. He fell to his knees, finding it hard to hold his head to face her. He had almost long forgotten what she looked like, but now her features shown brightly, rekindling his memory. She was even more beautiful than he remembered, not at all like the beggar woman had he last seen. No, that devil wasn't Lucy; it was not her spirit or her grace, only her body with no soul. Even though his eyes saw, he still was disbelieving, unable to comprehend that she was standing before him.

"It can't be," he said.

"Yes, it can," she replied in a voice no louder than a whisper.

"It can't be, it can't be, it can't be," he muttered to himself, barely audible even to his own ears. She reached out and touched his face, her fingers delicately gracing his changed features. He didn't feel her warmth, only her touch, but he soaked up the feeling like air. She knelt in front of him, her hand continuing to caress his face. He reached out his hand to touch her face, feeling her imperfect skin. He caressed her hair, shining with more color and vibrancy than anyone he had ever seen. He stared into her deep, bright, and warm blue eyes, falling deeply into its trance. Sweeney smiled, his heart filling with such joy that he was sure it would burst. A cool line grazed his face. He touched it with his index finger and realized that, for the first time in fifteen years, he was crying tears of joy.

"Come with me," she said softly, rising to her feet. She guided Sweeney along, lifting his arm with ease. Grasping his hand, she led him to the window, the sun finally disappearing behind the London skyline. "The view was always this beautiful, wasn't it?" she asked.

"It was, but not for a long time," he said.

"What happened?" she asked.

"You were taken from me," he said, his hold of her hand tightening, as if he would not let go for the rest of eternity.

"You've changed, Ben," she said, caressing his hair and staring into his eyes, darkened from the world's evils.

"Many years have come and gone since I lost you," he said. She smiled.

"Well, I'm here now, and that's all that matters," she said. She pulled him into a hug, and he returned the embrace. She was so soft, yet he was saddened that he couldn't feel her warmth. He wanted to remain this way with her day and night forever and ever. This was paradise, this was _home. _The rest of the world no longer mattered, only Lucy was important. He wanted to stand by her side forever, to gaze into her eyes until time stopped, and to kiss her until the end of days. But he knew that that wasn't possible, not now. Later, perhaps, but not until this journey came to a close.

"How long do we have?" he asked.

"As long as you like; as long as I'm here with you," she said. "But, unfortunately, not an eternity," she said. That didn't bother him; after his next two people, he _would_ have eternity. He smiled sadly.

"What's wrong?" she asked with her eyes full of concern.

"The last time I saw you, it wasn't you, it was only…only…" he could bear to say the word _monster_. "It wasn't really you."

"That part of me is dead, only the true me survives now," she said. He cringed; he once said something like that, and it changed the course of his entire life. A horrid idea came to his mind. He knew this part of the journey was inevidable, but he longed for it to delay. He needed to ask, so he could be prepared.

"Do I have to see you…die?" he asked, to scared to know the answer. Unfortunately, her eyes dimmed in animation.

"Both times," she said. His head sank, and his eyes welt up with more bittersweet drops. _Both times_. He knew exactly what she meant.

"Does it have to be soon?" he asked. She drooped her head, the experience obviously difficult for her.

"The hour has come. My soul left at twilight," she said, she, too, on the verge of tears. He wanted to protest, he wanted to shout no, and that it didn't have to be this way; it was too soon, he wasn't prepared. But it was too late; the smoky image of Lucy appeared behind him. He turned his head to watch, though it was not his bidding. He attempted in vain to shut his eyes and turn his focus away, but his pupils were forced to concentrate on the scene before him. The real Lucy held him close, assuring him that this wasn't real. Lucy's image was crying, weeping, grieving. She could hardly contain herself; she stumbled about, knocking over the lamp. He heard a cry from the crib in the corner. _Johanna_. Lucy was clutching a small bottle with no label in one hand, and a bottle of gin in the other. She took a swig of gin, gasping for air once she swallowed it down.

"I can't do this anymore," she muttered to herself, sobbing uncontrollably. "I can't, I can't, I can't…" She slumped to the far corner of the room, and folded into a fetal position, her head sunk to her knees. She continued to weep, all the while saying "I can't, I can't" over and over again, until the words faded to a mere whisper. Sweeney didn't move, he could only watch in horror. He clutched Lucy tighter while holding back a scream. Lucy lifted her head to look into the mirror that stood across the room. She stared maliciously at her reflection, her eyes hardening into angry squints. She rose from the corner and half-stumbled to the reflective glass, eying it with a venomous glance. Sweeney had never seen Lucy like this, and it frightened him. She stared at the mocking mirro for some time, her breathing intensifying.

"Stupid slut!" she screamed at herself. Lucy heaved the empty gin bottle at the mirror. Both the mirror and the bottle shattered, leaving shards of glass scattered along the floor. The loud crack startled Johanna, and she began crying. Lucy continued to weep. A distant call could be heard from downstairs.

"Lucy, is everythin' all right?"

Lucy didn't respond, even as the faint sound of footsteps could be heard. Lucy eyed the bottle in her hand, and then the crying Johanna, and finally her broken reflection in the mirror. Her attention turned back to the bottle once more.

"I'm sorry." She raised the bottle above her head as if to make a toast. "Til death do us part," she said. She drew back the little bottle, and swallowed its contents whole. Sweeney longed to part from this waking nightmare, but had no way to turn away or shout. The only thing he could do was clutch Lucy tighter. The sounds of footsteps were heard on the stairs, growing louder and louder. The figure of Lucy was fading, her edges blurring, and her features less distinct. The figure appeared dizzy, and collapsed on the ground, the bottle rolling away from her hand. Her figure faded to gray, and the sounds of footsteps faded. Another shadowy figure appeared in the doorway, but there was no way to recognize who it was, even though Sweeney knew perfectly well. Eventually, both of the figures faded away completely. It was now dark, and the candles left the room with an eerie glow. The force which kept Sweeney from looking away ceased, and he turned to face Lucy, burying his face in her hair.

"That wasn't supposed to happen, no, no, no…"

But it began to happen again. The force jerked his head off of Lucy, forcing him to turn it around. Behind him was the shadow of Lucy, but it wasn't the one he held in his arms. This Lucy was haggard and dirty, with clothes that no longer held color, and were so old and thin that their mere skeletons were practically all that was left. Her face was hideously distorted by scars, warts, and boils, her hair lying in stringy, greasy, gray-yellow strands. She twitched and jerked her body in the oddest of fashions, muttering to herself and hopelessly searching the barber shop for another human being. Sweeney jerked when he saw his figure appear in the barber shop, the look of demons in his eyes, the shadows of evil cast upon his face. He remembered his final minutes as being strangely dreamy, as if he was walking in a drunken haze. He had lost himself in those moments, left himself behind and let the Dark Guidance lead the way. It was only until he realized the full consequences of his actions did his senses become clear. Sweeney suddenly fell into the same stupor as before, the actions of the shadows becoming slow and fuzzy, their words incomprehensible. His mind felt like it was tumbling blindly, falling into a state of complete emptiness. He saw himself approach Lucy, look madly into her eyes. When he slit her throat, his senses once again heightened. The blood never looked more disgusting or horribly crimson and thick. Lucy's eyes widened, and she was still. He pressed the lever by his chair, and Lucy disappeared into the depths of the bake house. Sweeney's image faded instantly, the last look in his eyes was annoyed relief. When he opened this mouth, this time, his throat obliged, and he let out a painful, desperate cry of agony. It was long and loud, and he felt the room vibrate somewhat. He broke into hysterics, screaming Lucy's name, all while she clutched him, trying to calm him down.

"It wasn't real, Ben, it wasn't real!" she said, desperately trying to calm her husband down. He sank to his knees, and pressed his hand to his face.

"I'll never forgive myself for this, and you'll never forgive me. What must I do to leave this nightmare?" he said. She touched his cheek with one hand and stroked his hair with another while humming an unknown lullaby. She lifted him to his feet and guided him towards the door of his shop. "Come, let's leave this dreaded place."

"We can leave?"

"Of course. Anything is possible, even forgiveness."

And with that, they left the barber shop, Sweeney guided by his Lucy into the realm of the unknown.


	12. The Fifth Lesson

**whoohoo, this story has reached its 30th review mark! So this is one of my few attempts to write something romantic. If I fail, I'm sorry. Anywhoo, I think this chapter is kinda short, but it takes course over several days, and that many details would bore you, so I condensed those said days into a few paragraphs. Nothing much more to say other than enjoy your Goodie of the Day: coffee ice cream. _for the bitter and the sweet_.**

**Disclaimer: i, goddess of musicals say Sweeney is mine! oh, but I don't own the lyrics to "beautiful". those belong to MeShell Ndegeocello.**

Lucy and Sweeney left the barber shop together, walking side by side, together at last, along the empty streets of London. They were different to him than he remembered; the night cast a romantic mood instead of a frightening one, and everything seemed cleaner and all around more pleasant. They traveled all over the city, covering every corner they desired. Sweeney only wanted more time with Lucy, and he was granted it. He spent days and nights with her, neither sleeping nor dreaming: only talking, laughing, and loving his dear wife. They talked about their old lives, of the friends they used to have, and the things they used to do. He even brought up Rebecca, and cheerfully described how wonderful she was, but not to the point where he could cause Lucy sadness. Luckly, she had already met Rebecca, and was able to add on to his anecdote. But mostly, they talked of Sweeney's life after his return to London. He did not desire to speak of such things, but Lucy seemed enraptured by the details of his life. He refrained from revealing his murderous activities to her, but he felt the strange sensation that she already knew.

"So, this is what you looked like after you returned?" she once asked while they were walking next to the London Opera House. He nodded, slightly embarrassed by his ungainly appearance. "Ben, I thought I always taught you to keep yourself tidy! And this hairdo, what a ghastly thing!" she said, and they both laughed.

They decided to try things they never experienced before. They visited the London Opera House, and watched _La Ceccina_, though they were the only audience members. The singers, after the opera was over, simply vanished, mere visions of past performers. They rowed small, two person boats in the Serpentine River in Hyde Park. Sweeney often teased Lucy, rocking the boat as if to tip it over. One time, they actually did capsize, both laughing as they rose to the surface. Another day, they visited a piano shop, and Lucy played their favorite pieces of music while they both sang or hummed along, sometimes forgetting the lyrics, and writing their own lines to fill in. Another day, they bird watched in Green's Park. The world seemed so beautiful, so much more colorful than he remembered it. Everything was perfect; the two spent every second enjoying themselves, conversing, joking, and often, simply holding each other close. The days molded together, though he knew that he hadn't been with her for more than a week. It seemed odd that they were granted so much time since it was denied of him and Rebecca.

All the while, Sweeney and Lucy felt like they was young again, in the throws of young, passionate love. Sweeney felt unusually romantic, an emotion he often looked down upon when he saw couples on the street. Only now did he realize that it was only because of his bitterness towards love, since it was denied of him. His rejection of young couples was only because of his nostalgia towards his brighter days. Now, the old feelings rekindled, but the kind of love he felt towards Lucy now was different from before.

The Greeks have three different words for love: _eros, philia,_ and _agape_. Sweeney remembered _eros_, that intense, consuming love for Lucy. It was the love of her that made her appear so beautiful and perfect. _Philia_, the love of humanity, was something he had lost after Lucy was taken from him, and was beginning to retun after his death and his meetings with his other persons. His faith in humanity was indeed in far better after he had died, his feelings of charity and the goodness of man seemed more prevalent. But now, he realized, he felt _agape_ for Lucy; the unconditional, perfect, self-sacrificing love he felt for her. He knew that he would do anything for her, and would always be there for her, for the bitter and the sweet. He felt home with her; he felt complete with her.

One particular evening, they lay in St. James' park, in the wide open field surrounded by a thin cluster of oak trees. The night sky was a million sparkling opals, shining with more enthusiasm than he had ever seen before. No clouds of smoke and smog covered them or dimmed their luminescence. Sweeney held hands with Lucy, she resting her head against his wide chest as they gazed at the stars, pointing out various constellations.

"I've never noticed some of these stars before," he remarked.

"Maybe you just never looked hard enough," she commented.

"No, sometimes I think things like this chose to hide themselves from me," he said slightly playfully. Lucy said nothing, but Sweeney could feel a wave of tension through her briefly. She shifted her weight. He knew that she was repressing something, and he only knew it was his destined lesson to learn from her. But she resisted, delaying it as long as she could, though well that it could not be held off forever. She felt the temptation to share it with him the moment she saw him, but she was strong enough to hold it off as long as she could. But the Will of God pushed her harder and harder as each day passed. She didn't know if she could hold it off much longer. Tomorrow night, she decided. Then, he will encounter his last two persons, and then, eternity together, if only he chose it. They spent the rest of the night in silence, simply absorbing the stars and each other. Sweeney stroked Lucy's hair, unable to overcome its softness and sweet smell.

In the morning, they traveled to Buckingham Palace. They toured its room with priceless jewelry and art, as well as danced in the grand ballrooms. They explored the luxurious bedrooms larger than their old home. The beds were draped with silk and taffeta curtains with scagliola print. Sifting through the Royal clothing in a wardrobe as large one of the walls in the barber shop, Lucy turned towards Sweeney and told him to close his eyes and turn around. After a short time, she permitted him to gaze upon her dress. He was astounded by how beautiful Lucy looked; she wore an elegant white ball gown that fit her perfectly. It was made of silk and lace, with various bows circling the hips, and a flowered corset. It was sleeveless, exposing her delicate, creamy skinned shoulders. She had placed a brilliant diamond tiara in her crown of falling curls. Her face beamed, filling the room with a light that was incomparable. Sweeney smiled and hugged her carefully so as not to upset the dress. They continued to explore the vast halls and corridors of the extraordinary palace until twilight. It was then that Lucy led him to the Palace Garden, a field vaster and more perfect than he had ever seen. An old, massive mulberry tree stood in the center of the fields, and a grand garden to the right. They walked towards the garden and the small, manmade lake, all the while holding each other close. Sweeney could feel the painful tension of Lucy, thought she did not speak. She refused to look at him, as if he would disappear if she did. Finally Sweeney broke the silence.

"Is something wrong, Lucy?" he asked. She looked at the ground as if struggling to hold something in. Finally, she gave up hiding; she knew it was for the best.

"Isn't the garden beautiful, Ben?" she asked pleasantly yet sadly.

"It's gorgeous."

"Would you have thought so before you died, Sweeney?" she said. Hearing his pseudonym used by Lucy felt like a knife had pierced his stomach.

"No, I don't think so," he said truthfully.

"Why do you believe it so? Or rather, why would you let that happen?" she inquired. Sweeney sighed.

"After I was taken away, life's joys and beauties abandoned me," he stated.

"Did they, or were they always there?"

"Life and love was lost to me. The world forgot about me, it turned its face from me and spat upon the ground I stood on," he said bitterly. "It took you away from you. Even though you lived, in my mind, you died, and so did the world. After _Mrs. Lovett_" he said, barely able to say her name, "told me you died, I forgot your face, I felt as if you were fading away, as if your spirit was gone forever."

"Oh, Ben," she whispered, stroking his face. She smiled weakly, and that broke his heart. "The world never abandoned you, life never abandoned you, _and I _never abandoned you. I was always there beside you, and so was life and love.

"We have traditions because we want to remember and honor the past. If we didn't, we would accept that the past never existed, and didn't affect our lives. But the fact is, our past does affect our lives, so it is our job to remember it. This leaves us open to learn from it, and to remember those who have gone before us. I never wanted you to sulk over me, but to remember me, and celebrate my life. I wanted you only happiness and life.

"Tragedy doesn't cause the world to reject you; if anything, it should strengthen your relationships. The joys of life never leave you, nor do they want to. They were always right beside you. So you see, I never left you, you just closed your eyes." She kissed him on the cheek. "You closed your heart, and it was _you _who abandoned the world. You turned away from it, instead of opening you heart to it. If you hadn't, maybe you could have enjoyed the night sky, or this garden, or the opera we saw, but instead, you chose darkness. Would I have wanted you to remain miserable, sulking over your lost life?" He shook his head no, unable to answer. "You need to be open to love, Ben, and love will find you. Let your heart be willing to accept happiness, and joy will be granted to you. Choose darkness, and hope cannot find you." She sighed, as if a great weight was lifted off of her shoulders, but there was also a great sadness that swept over her. "We don't have much more time, Ben."

By now, they had traveled deep in the gardens, unable to find the exit, which would be exhibited by a white archway of red roses. Neither wanted to depart from each other, but knew it was inevitable now that Lucy had revealed her lesson and struck a chord in Sweeney's heart. Sweeney suddenly felt a great desire to share something with Lucy that had not yet shared with her, something completely unexpected. He had almost forgotten about it, but standing in this perfect paradise, the sun closing on the horizon, his heart swelled with the want. He leaned in closely to her ear.

"Lucy," he said. She hummed "yes".

"Do you know what kept me alive in that prison?" he said. She hummed a "no", and pulled her arm, bringing herself closer to her husband's side.

"I" he said, and chuckled, embarrassed, "I…wrote you…a song. It made me think of you, it brought me out of my misery. But it's not that great, and really simple," he said.

"I don't care what it sounds like, I will cherish it. Please, sing it to me before you go," she said, and Sweeney saw a tear leak from her impossibly blue eyes. He leaned in close, wrapping his arm around her waist as he walked beside her. He cleared his throat, and barely choked out the song, on the verge of tears.

_Such pretty hair_

He stroked her golden locks as he sang, his voice as soft as a whisper, and delicate, unlike his normally gruff voice. He could hardly sing it, but he continued.

_May I kiss you_

_May I kiss you there_

_So beautiful you are_

She blushed, and smiled sweetly. He stroked her cheek, and kissed her there. He continued the song.

_Please don't move_

_It feels so good to me_

She relaxed, and they walked dreamily through the garden, the smell of roses lingering, and their walk was one in the same. Lucy closed her eyes, absorbing Sweeney's song, letting it fill her completely.

_Hmm tell me my_

_Beautiful _

_Beautiful_

_So very beautiful_

The last line was so sincerely said and precious that Lucy could no longer hold back her bittersweet tears. Sweeney was completely focused on her, and didn't notice the archway of roses. He turned to face the front of her, and walked backwards, holding her hands, leading her to follow him.

_So beautiful_

_Beautiful_

Sweeney leaned into her face, her breath caressing his skin as he continued to lead her with his hands.

_So beautiful_

He kissed her gently, her lips as soft as water and full as a pillow, he sighed in ecstasy, still walking backwards, never wanting to break apart. He graced his right hand on her cheek, and tightened his grip with his left hand in hers. He walked through the archway, unaware of where he was heading.

And then she was gone.

* * *

**Ah, so sad . Anywhoo, if you want to hear the song, go to ****/watch?vdihKG4Iszbw&featurerelated****. Not only is there the song, but there's an accompaning dance, which ironically depicts "tim burton's wedding" . plus, a pic of Lucy's ballgown is at the link below(the doll on the right, who ironically, is called Lucilla). yea for irony!**

images./imgres?imgurlwww.houseoftroy./images/lucilleelysiaballgowns1.jpg&imgrefurlwww.houseoftroy./photo1.html&h583&w350&sz110&hlen&start56&um1&tbnidfJhOP0GLfvEM3M:&tbnh134&tbnw80&prev/images?qvictorian+ball+gowns&start54&ndsp18&um1&hlen&rlz1T4ADBFenUS273US273&saN


	13. The Sixth Person

**Hey, everyone, so sorry for the delay, but there will be another one for at least a week whilst I'm on vacation. Hopefully this chapter doesn't disappoint(sinse I'm sure this person was highly anticipated). Enjoy with peanut butter brittle, the Goodie of the Day! Oh, btw, so sorry that the links didn't translate in the last chapter. If you still want to see the dance(though I doubt it), go to youtube and type "chelsie and mark so you think you can dance". Chelsie should be wearing a big white dress. Peace. **

Sweeney's mind was blank except for Lucy. With every fiber of his being, he tried to scream her name, but no sound was produced out of his hoarse throat. All of his cries for the return of Lucy were fruitless; his time with her was up. But no, he could not loose another family member, not like this. She was just on the other side of the door, so close and yet so far away. Even though he knew that the door would never open again, he bashed his fist against it as hard as he could. The wood was more like stone, and his hand bled and cracked in his attempts. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he continued to scream her name with silent calls, but nothing he could do could bring her back to him. Eventually, his fist turned numb, but the shock of pain still pulsated through his arm. Resting his head against the unforgiving door, he continued to repeat "Lucy" in his mind over and over again. He was ready to give up; he wasn't even sure if he could make it through his next two persons. Then again, he knew he couldn't really harm himself if he was already dead. After all, he wasn't really bleeding or feeling pain, he only wanted to believe he did because it displayed his passionate love for his wife. He wanted so desperately to hold onto that feeling, to hold onto the deep connection they shared, a loyalty that had only just rekindled.

His mind kept repeating her name until finally it was barely a whisper in his head, and the rest of his thoughts were blank. He tried to concentrate on her features, her yellow hair, porcelain skin, her sky blue eyes, but only blackness filled his thoughts. With his mind empty and wandering, he started examining the changes in his physical appearance. It was clear now that this stage of his earthly existence was when he began his dirty work. The lines on his face were hard and his skin was cold, with stubble emerging from his cheek, pale as Persephone. Grasping coarse hairs from his head, he saw his now completely definate white streak that stained his otherwise black wire. He felt worn and haggard, his back and head aching as they used to from his sleepless nights lying in his barber's chair. He felt physically drained, as if he had run through London in one day. But the most curious, and most frightening feature, was the presence of blood sprinkled on his otherwise wrinkled white shirt, a reminder of his past haunting him.

After what felt like hours in the cold unfeeling abyss, the familiar crunching sounds of the world falling into place reverberated throughout his body. He no longer covered his ears to block the sounds, he no longer cared. The whole scene seemed so insignificant to him now; only finishing the journey mattered. He so wanted to give up, to end it, but he knew deep down that he could not give up (he wasn't even sure if it was possible), for the sooner he held on, the sooner Lucy would fall back into his arms once more. He had to accept his fate and whoever he encountered next.

His eyes widened in horror when he recognized the dark, empty room that enveloped him. Dreams were lost here, hope was killed here, _lives_ were lost here; it was the bake house. He shuddered because he only knew of three significant people who died here (other than the other countless, faceless men who fell to his razor), and he didn't desire to meet any of them.

Everything in the dreamless hall was darker and more sinister than he remembered: the eerie shadows cast by the furnace were sharper and more defined; the echoes in the room were louder and more distorted. He was sure that if he could breathe, he could still smell death in the room. Still, he didn't need the stench of old flesh and blood to feel death's presence: the lost ghosts which seemed to haunt the room did the job. He could almost hear their cries for help in the echoes of the room. He could hear the sound of footsteps coming from all sides of the bake house, but they didn't seem to belong to any particular person. They sounded discordant, distant and close at the same time, as if more than one invisible being was walking. The paces seemed to encircle him, slowing in stride.

"There is no glory in power…" a voice said, yet it was indistinguishable; it was more like wind than a voice. It seemed to come from all sides of the room.

"There is no love in lies…" the voice said, becoming more distinct, yet still impossible to differentiate from any other person. The footsteps seemed to slow down, and they now sounded like they belonged to only one person.

"And there is no justice in vengeance…"

The footsteps stopped, last heard behind him. He felt the presence of another human being, its mass hovering behind him. He turned around, and gazed into the eyes of a human that he hated more than anyone else in the entire world.

"_You_…"

"'ello, Mr. T," Mrs. Lovett said calmly. Her gaze was distant, and her expression vacant. Her thoughts were lost in a dream, yet she was entirely conscience of what she was saying. He could detect the nostalgia in her face, as if she was remembering happier times. But Sweeney never knew happier times with her. His fists tightened, his knuckles turning purple. He sneered at her, and was ready to punch her square in the jaw, despite the fact that she was a woman. "Come on, Mr. T, can't we speak like civilized folk?" she asked in a voice that seemed forcefully placid. But Sweeney felt anything but calm; the only thing he wanted to do was shout at her, to blame her for everything, to curse her existence. She felt his tension, but like always, pretended to remain unmoved by his emotions. "Mr. T?"

"You're the last person I ever wanted to see again, _Mrs. Lovett_," he said coldly. He advanced towards her, his body forward, and his steps more like stomps.

"Mr. T, what's the past is the past, and that no longer matters here," she said, remaining calm, trying to ease him with her soothing voice. This was painful for her as well, and she only wanted to breeze through this meeting without any delay or fighting.

"But what you did was unforgivable! That is something I could never leave in the past," he retorted.

"What you did was unforgivable too, Mr. T!" she said, raising her voice a little, but still remaining calm. She took a breath to regain her voice. "But like I said, the past does not matter here; all that matters is the here and now, and right now, we've got a lot to talk about." He breathed heavily, trying to calm down but still visibly agitated.

"Fine, what do you want to say, Mrs. Lovett?" He said her name as if he said "road kill."

"Well, we first need to start at the end," she said, and gestured over to the corner of the bake house. Five shadows emerged, three lying on the ground, and two upright. In the corner, just below the trap door appeared the mangled bodies of the Beadle and the Judge. Once upon an earlier time, he would have sneered at their corpses, but now, he felt absolutely nothing towards them. He had put them and their evils behind him. In fact, the only piece of his past that he still held onto was Mrs. Lovett, and he wasn't so willing to forgive her. Everything he based his life on: His works, his goals, his wants, were only supported by a single lie, a lie that turned his life into a living nightmare.

His stomach tightened and his knees felt weak when he saw the body of Lucy, but then he remembered what she said: that was only her body, but not her true self, not her soul. This made him feel better, but it didn't stop the pain completely. He saw himself and Mrs. Lovett emerge out of the silent chaos, and took shock to what he saw. It was impossible to believe that anyone could look so menacing, so violent, so heartless, and so very…unfeeling. But there he was, his glare daring Mrs. Lovett to speak, his body covered in blood. He saw the monster that he was at the end, how much the Dark Guidance had ruined him body, mind, and soul. He felt ashamed with himself, and preparing himself for what was to happen. Even though he felt shame for himself, he felt none for Mrs. Lovett; at least he was open, he was honest, and she was a cruel liar.

The scene felt like a daze to him, their final dance whirling dizzily, pouring forth confusion and final grudges. He couldn't help but notice the look on her face. There was something in it that he didn't see earlier, when he felt too blinded by anger and darkness to see anything but a dangerous creature under her eyes; but now, he could see how truly happy and calm she seemed to be in their fast-paced waltz. Sweeney could see the trust in Mrs. Lovett's eyes, blind, stupid faith that would lead to her end. When he saw himself throw her into the inferno, he could only stare at her, and see her total shock and fear, her screams vibrating throughout the hall. He watched, part of himself sneering, but the other half unable to ignore the way the scene lay before him in this new perspective. The figures faded to gray, until they disappeared into the cold, dark stone walls.

He felt a confusion of feelings creep up his spine. He wasn't sure to feel indifference or pity towards Mrs. Lovett. Seeing her death in the third person, without the complete, consuming rage gave him a clearer, more sensible vision of the situation. Only now could he see _her_ feelings as well as his, only now could he feel her blind, foolish commitment towards him. Why hadn't he noticed this before? Did she always display her devotion like so while his vision was clouded by the past?

His confusion quieted his anger, yet he still felt the pang of grudge, like something was still left unresolved and unsettled. He knew it was only inevitable that several minutes of discussing their lives would follow, and it wouldn't be pretty. The vision made him realize just how strongly she felt towards him, and he knew she wouldn't release him before openly telling him just how much he meant to her. Sweeney wasn't sure just how strong her passion was, but he was certain that it was powerful enough to make their time together very emotional, if mostly for her. He turned to face Mrs. Lovett, whose face seemed lost in bittersweet memories of restless feelings. It was obvious she was trying to hide her tears; she was never one to openly show any emotion besides bouncy happiness. She turned her face away from his, as if attempting to hide her sadness. Sweeney wished he knew how to comfort her, but he was never well equipped for giving advice. He opened his mouth to deliver some out-of-the-book sympathy phrase, but Mrs. Lovett caught him first, and raised her hand quickly to silence him.

"Don't say anything, Mr. T. Just let me speak."


	14. The Sixth Lesson

**SOrry this historic meeting is a little shorter than you want it to be, but it reflects how Mrs. Lovett wants it to be. Besides, I have to hurry before vacation tomorrow. After that, there won't be any more updates for at least a week. I've received several messages from people trying to guess who the last person will be. I can't make any promises, but I think you'll find the person is unexpected. In the meantime, enjoy the Goodie of the Day: raspberry ice cream. disclaimer: nope, dont' own. that goddess of musicals was a facade.**

Mrs. Lovett closed her eyes softly to collect her thoughts. Her chest rose as if to breathe, but Sweeney heard no air passing through her lungs. Opening her eyes, she gazed at him with purpose and clarity. She was a woman with a mission, and when Mrs. Lovett made up her mind, there was no stopping her. Though she appeared calm in face, her body language displayed nervousness; she was slouching backwards, with her right hand stroking her left forearm. Her shoes twitched, as if her toes wrinkled. There was an awkward and unusual silence that resided over the two, the haunting memories of the past preventing either of them from speaking. She knew she had to speak, she must, but she had no idea where to begin. Sweeney waited, growing impatient, for her to begin her lecture. She turned her head, searching the room for a source of inspiration. Her gaze fell upon the burning oven, an inferno that seemed to mock them both. So much history passed through those flames, so many lives lost to its closed quarters. Its fiery passion gave her the inspiration she tried to grasp.

"You know, Mr. T, I used to stare a' that oven for 'ours," she said suddenly. The comment caught Sweeney off guard. He merely grunted a response. "I would jus' watch those flames dance by and wonder, 'wha' am I doing this for?' Only later did I realize tha' the question was _whom_ am I doin' this for." Now Sweeney was beginning to feel nervous. If he was alive, he was sure that he would feel hot with embarrassment, but he only felt the neutral, unnatural coolness of his body. "I've spen' a while trying to figure out wha' to say to you, and I realized tha' the answer wa' always there in front o' me. I had always stared a' the truth every day for the past year." She paused briefly, and then turned towards Sweeney, facing him head on. "My life, my wants, my _bein' _lived just like tha' oven; I was always feedin' myself, not with pies, but dreams, and they kept my soul on fire. Just like this oven only wanted more pies, I only wanted to dream, to imagine a life tha' I could only fantasize about.

"I wanted t' leave Fleet Street more than you can possibly imagine, Mr. T, but I stayed because _you _stayed." She paused, and turned her eyes away briefly with embarrassment. After a few moments, she turned her gaze back to Sweeney. "From the moment I first saw you, saw your emotional, passionate nature; I could never stop thinkin' about you. I was once in _love_ with you, Sweeney." It was the first time she had ever used his first name. He couldn't be taken more aback; she loved him? Of course, he should have seen the signs, the way she always smiled at him, always being polite and gentle. He always thought it to be out of fear of him, but out of love? He wasn't sure how to respond, except to the one detail he noticed in her statement.

"Once?" he asked.

"Like I said, it's in the past, 'n it no longer matters."

"But this is so unlike you. Once you make up your mind, there isn't any changing it. I was at least_ that_ observant to notice." She turned away from him and walked towards the oven. Her dress, worn as ever, dragged across the bleak stone floors, giving her a haunting elegance as her shadow elongated from the fire. After a brief pause she continued.

"We have so much more in common than you think, Mr. T." Sweeney felt tension in his throat and chest.

"No, Mrs. Lovett, I'm _nothing_ like you," he spat, the very idea inconceivable to him.

"No, Mr. T, I'm just like you. And tha' is what was the death of both of us," she said quietly. "There wa' this silly little quote I read once. I thought it was corny, yet I always 'ad a way of findin' it somewhere and rereadin' it: honor the past, celebrate the present, reach for the future. I know, silly, but now I see 'ow prevalent it is. You 'n I are on the opposite ends of the spectrum: you hol' onto the past, I hol' onto the future. The trouble is tha' both of us could never let go of wha' we held dear; you could never move on, and I could never let go of my imagination. Neither of us seized wha' we already had.

"So you see, you 'n I are both alike: we both desire wha' is unreachable, impossible, 'n cannot accept the truth." She paused for a few moments, watching the flames dance before her eyes, their orange glow barely contained in the steel beast. Sweeney couldn't begin to guess what she was thinking at that moment. She turned her head to face him, her eye darkened from the shadow.

"I was blinded by my obsession ov'r you, Sweeney," she said, barely able to choke out his name. "So much so that I didn' see the monster I became so you could accept me. I didn' see my morals diminish 'n my reasons becoming distorted. All I could think of, all I could believe in was the idea tha' you and I would live happily togeth'r. I believed tha' if I went along with you, stood by your side no matter wha', then it would happen one day. But it didn', and I butch'red too many men to count because of this belief. It sickened me to do my work, and it disgusted me when you showed me Pirelli. But I 'ad to contain myself, I 'ad to act nonchalant, because I knew I needed your trust. After I…died…I realized tha' I was foolish, and 'ow damaged I really was." She paused to collect her thoughts, and strained to hold back tears. Never before had she been so open, so honest to the man she once revere as a god. She fought to hold back tears that were aching to fall. But she couldn't let them; she had to contain herself. At last she continued. "I remember tha' there were nights when I felt like I couldn' take it anymore, where I wished tha the chaos would stop, but I somehow always woke up to a sunny day the next mornin'."

"Did you ever think about, you know?" said Sweeney, gesturing a throat slice with his hand.

"Did I ever think about killin' myself? No, that's pathetic," she said quickly and coldly. "But there were days tha' were more difficult than others." She again paused, seeming to collect her thoughts (or was she reminiscing?). Sweeney couldn't tell, he didn't want to ask her. "You, Mr. T, were so enthralled by the past tha' you didn' see the world around you."

"I know, that's what Lucy told me," he said bitterly. He told himself that he wouldn't bring up Lucy, and he wished that he hadn't mentioned her. He shut away any thoughts of her, lest he bring her up again.

"Well, she was right, you know. You were so consumed by your past tha' you didn' try to make a future for yourself. You tried to 'old onto something tha' no longer existed, a life that 'ad faded to the abstract," she said.

"I could have had a life if you never lied to me!" he wanted to scream. But he saw the logic: a life with Lucy would never happen again. Even if he did try to have a life with his insane Lucy, things would never have been what they once were. Her body was alive, but her soul was dead. Sweeney asked himself: would he rather live with his Lucy alive and driven into madness, or live with his Lucy dead, buried virtuous and sensible. The more he thought about, the more he realized he wanted the latter. The Lucy he saw while he was alive wasn't really Lucy, but a soulless, wandering mind with no logic or goals. Trying to bring back the life he once had with her would have driven him into madness. He thought of Lucy, glowing with beauty and grace, her smile gleaming in the sunlight, her words sweet and warm, lost to chaos. He couldn't have let that happen. He had to remember all that was good about Lucy, he needed to honor her.

"What are you saying, you want me to just forget her?" he asked, sarcasm dripping every syllable.

"Tha's not what I'm sayin' at all! I'm sayin' you need to remember her, to honor her, but she cannot consume your life. You need to make a future for yourself. _You need to move on. _Remember, and forgive." They eyed each other for several moments, trying to read each other, but that was nearly impossible, their dark eyes closed so the world will never read them. After several moments, Eleanor blinked and turned her gaze away.

"I didn' wan' our meeting to end this way," she said.

"It's over?"

"The lesson's done, the time's up," she stated. There at the end of the bake house, sure enough, was the large, pure white door, seeming to mock their conversation. Tension still mounted, like there was something still left unsaid. Whatever either of them needed to confess, it had to be then. Sweeney took the liberty of breaking the silence.

"Eleanor," he said, and slightly winced when he said her name for the first time, "I'm sorry…for everything. I wasn't who you wanted me to be, and that's nothing I could ever take back."

"Sweeney, I may not love you anymore, but I still forgive you." He nodded, and preceded towards the door, not sure how to say goodbye. He turned around to see her face for the last time. She looked so lost, like she was delicately balancing between holding herself together and breaking down. She had lifted the mask she held all these years, letting Sweeney see who she truly was, and it drained her of energy. Her knees felt weak beneath her heavy dress, her eyes felt heavy, and she felt lethargic. Honesty was so burdensome. He gave her a nod goodbye, and she returned the gesture. He half-smiled in a way that was almost a smirk.

"Well, Eleanor, at least the pies were good," he said.

"You were never one for humor, Mr. T," she said.

"Guess I'm still not," he smirked. He turned away and walked towards the door. The tension seemed to melt off of his shoulders between Mrs. Lovett and him, but he suddenly grew anxious. His last person lay beyond that door, and who it was became anyone's guess. His steps slowed, and he focused on their echoes. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. It was strange how silent he was, with neither breath nor heartbeat. He clothes felt heavy, and he became increasingly aware of their texture. A challenge lay before him, one last hill to climb. The journey was almost complete, and the end lay beyond that door. He reached for the handle and was surprised for the first time to feel cold. The brass was smooth and hard, but undeniably cold as ice. After being used to what seemed like an eternity of unfeeling, the sudden jolt of temperature send a shock to his arm. He drew his hand back as if he touched a burning stove. Hesitantly, he reached once more for the handle, the sounds of the licking flames behind him. The handle was still shockingly cold, but more bearable. He twisted the handle with ease and opened the door. The other side was not white, but the darkest, deepest black of night. It was a frightening change, one that sent a wave of apprehensiveness down his spine. Cautiously, reluctantly, he stepped inside. The door closed behind him, and he was sent into the darkest corner of imagination.


	15. The Seventh Person

**Duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh...THE FINAL PERSON! whohoo! sorry for the delay (and the ridiculously short nature of this chapter), but i hope you sincerely enjoy this chapter, cuz there's...a twist! muahahahaha! wow...im animated today/. anywhoo, enjoy with the Goodie of the Day, blueberry sorbet.**

There is no such thing as silence; even the absence of sound is always accompanied by some buzzing that vibrates throughout the universe, an energy that surrounds us and rings through our ears. Sweeney, alone in the blackest of spaces, heard the ringing of the air in his ears, becoming agitated by its consistency. He needed to quiet the silence.

"Hello?" he shouted, but his echoes fell on deaf ears. They merely faded into the vibrations of the empty universe surrounding him. The only possibility of filling the silence was talking, but muttering nothings to himself seemed absurd and unnecessary. The absence of anything and everything was absolutely maddening, his body the only apparent object around him. Oddly enough, he saw his body perfectly as if he was standing in the daylight, though no sun shown on him. He expected by now to see himself in a hopelessly haggard state, almost rotting away, but unusually, his clothes were completely different. He was wearing all white, no distinctive colors or details whatsoever. Touching his face, he felt no lines, no hard crevices that marked his heartache and misery. He felt light, almost as if he was floating. He felt ageless, untouched by human hands, just like Rebecca. He was in the same emotionless, empty state of being that he felt just after he died. Time didn't seem to exist; everything moved slowly but felt quickly. Sweeney's thoughts were unfocused, and the enveloping silence continued to deter him from thinking.

_Where…?_

_What…?_

_How…?_

His thoughts could only mold those simple questions that he possessed no answer to. The thoughts didn't even seem to be his own, but words formed out of the silence and placed in his mind.

_Person…_

_Last…_

_My final person…_

He felt foggy, like everything was a dream, and he was only half awake. He needed to see something or someone else to sharpen his focus, but with nothing around, all he could do was float gently on his unsharpened world.

_Time…_

_Short…_

_Must…_

_Last chance…_

_Lucy…_

Suddenly his gaze sharpened, his mind focused. Like a hunter searching for prey, his senses were heightened, searching, waiting for what he was looking for. He heard nothing, saw nothing, yet he knew that something else was now present. Something was off, barely noticeable, yet undeniable. It was a distant thumping, accompanied by the sound of passing air, sounds that pierced through the silence. Could it be? Not possible. Still, he placed his hand to his chest: he was breathing, his heart was beating.

_What…?_

He wanted to ask more questions, but he quickly became overcome with the idea of breathing again, if he even was actually breathing. It wasn't likely that actual blood was pumping life through his heart, but he enjoyed the idea. To feel again, to feel alive again, what a concept. He kept his hand over his heart, and took a deep breath, letting the sensation fill him. Joy flooded his heart for a brief instant.

_Clink._

Sweeney, stunned by the sudden sound, spun around to determine its origin. He was slightly shocked upon seeing something other that himself in this empty space. Before him were three mirrors, each about eight feet tall. They were outlined in gold leaf, with intricate carving etched into them. The mirrors were filled with the clearest, cleanest, and shiniest glass he had ever laid his eyes on. Upon looking closely, he saw picture of angels and demons fighting each other, presumably at Armageddon. No one seemed to be winning the battle in the carvings. At the top of each of the mirrors was a different Latin inscription. The right one read: _Sumo diligo, sumo vita_. The left one said: _Nunquam velieris ex vestry. _The center mirror held two inscriptions. The top one, larger than all the others, read: Denique Alio. Below it was a smaller inscription that said: _Sumo vestri fortuna sapienter_. What was most curious about these mirrors was that his reflection didn't appear in any of them. He approached them cautiously, unsure what to do. Even when he was close enough to touch the reflective glass, he still didn't appear. He placed his fingertips on the center mirror, but quickly pulled away; the glass was hot, and left his fingertips a dark red. What did any of this mean? Sweeney's uncertainty made him skittish; he only wanted to meet his final person and move on.

Now the silence was broken by another sound, one that sounded like distant whistling. It seemed to be coming from the left and right mirrors. Their glass began to cloud a dark, smoky gray, while the center mirror remained untainted. The shadows darkened, similar to the figures of the people that appeared to him before. The clouds condensed, and formed images of a two men, both alike in height, but different in build and silhouette. They both were at first appeared to be unrecognizable, only visible in blurred lines and color, but as they slowly sharpened, their differences became more and more clear; the image to the right was softer, more colorfully pleasant, and lighter in tone, yet almost too cheery. The left image was most notably darker, drearier, and full of blacks, whites, and hints of red. Still, the center mirror remained unchanged.

When the images finally finished focusing, he could hardly believe his eyes; to his right was a perfect image of Benjamin Barker, heightened in giddiness and naïve charm. He was smiling warmly, if not stupidly, his clothing too new, his shirt too white, and his eyes too optimistic. It wasn't quite like his former self, more like an exaggerated image of his distant past. To his left was a ghastly image of his most recently former self. Certainly, he was a changed man, gaining wisdom and lightening his heart since his journey ended. But the man in the mirror was the epitome of a man's evil; his face was heavily shadowed, blood dripping down his cheeks. He was dressed in all black, with hair blacker than the coldest night, and skin paler than the whitest marble. His eyes were harsh and full of hate, more dangerous and sinister than they ever have been. Again, it was an exaggeration of one of his past personalities. Or was it? Did he ever come to this point in his life? Even the other image seemed slightly ghastly, and he wondered whether or not he ever reached such a point before. Both of the images stared at him, Benjamin with overly enthusiastic eyes and the other with Devilish maliciousness. The both smiled equally distorted smiles, twisted in their own strange and bizarre ways.

"Hello, Benjamin," said the right image.

"Hello, Sweeney," said the left image at the same time as the other one. Something shone, glittered. Directing his gaze upward, he saw the letters above the center mirrors change: the top line now read _The Final Person, _and the one below read _Choose your fate wisely._ He gasped slightly.

"That's right," the images said in unison. "In the end, we must meet who we truly are."

"So, who do you choose to be?"


	16. The Final Choice

**OMG, Sweeney makes a choice! Just FYI, for symbolic and clarification puposes, the images will be called Sweeney and Benjamin. The REAL life, non image Sweeney will be referenced by another name(but it shouldn't be too hard to understand). Alas, this is the final chapter to end this saga forever. but cry not, more(but currently non-existing) fanfiction(though not necessarily Sweeney fic)will be written in the future. so, without further ado, i present the final Goodie of the Day in this series: apple pie. happy reading to you all, and to all, a good night**

* * *

Though the three mirrors that mockingly stood before Sweeney were all that appeared to be in existence, he couldn't escape the overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia. The black, velvet walls of endless space wrapped his body tightly, restraining him; he found it difficult to move, to breathe, and to speak. Their binds seemed to cling tighter, pushing him to face a choice he knew he must, but didn't want to. Nothing could have prepared him for something like this. Not anything in this new life or his old one warned him about this choice, one that was determined to tear him apart. His mind and soul seemed to tear at their seams evenly; there was no clear winner in this game. His ethics, his philosophies, his very system of morals were laid out before him, eyeing him tensely, begging him, taunting him, _forcing_ him to choose one of his two sides.

His Sweeney and Benjamin eyed him smiling; their appearances were as different as night and day, yet they were equally as distorted and grotesque. His Benjamin was too nice, too innocent, too perfect, as if he was hypnotizing him, distorting his perception of the world, hiding its truths behind a shroud of lies. The image of Benjamin's solid brown eyes gazed into the soul of the Real Man, trying to brainwash him into a life of stupidity and clouded focus. The Real Man's memories of his life were fading, being replaced with faces that were hyper-colorful, their smiles fake and shallow. The Real Man felt angry, yearning to see the world as he now saw it, but the image of Benjamin only shoved those thoughts out into the never-ending night. It smiled with teeth that were inhumanly white and strangly sharp, sending a shudder down the Real Man's spine.

The image of Sweeney produced an equally haunting effect; it's menacing eyes, as black as the endless velvet crushing him, were penetrating horrifying wisdom into the Real Man's skull. It revealed to him the world's great truths; graven images of death, vengeance, and loneliness engulfed him. Images of a gray and sunless world filled him, with faces paler than marble and eyes darker than the deepest onyx. The Real Man called for color, for hope, but was refused. The image of Sweeney smiled with yellow, horrifying teeth with crooked edges and wide spaces.

"Do you have an answer?" the two images asked at the same time. Benjamin's voice was hypnotizing yet sinister, like the words of a murderer singing, "Come out, come out, wherever you are." Sweeney's voice was gruff, deep, and manic, like some strange animal. Neither was human, neither was pleasant.

"Which side is the truth?" the Real Man asked. A similarity between the images appeared; both laughed the same deep, non-human, demonic laugh that resembled the creaking of a door.

"Truth," said Sweeney, "doesn't exist."

"Only one's opinions," said Benjamin.

"I don't understand," the Real Man said, his throat so welled up and tight that the words came out like a croak. Again, the two images laughed monstrously.

"If one believes something is true, than it is to them," Sweeney said.

"If two men claim to tell the truth, and say that the other lied, than neither is telling the truth," Benjamin said. "If the truth can be altered, than there is no truth."

"There is only what you want," Sweeney said.

"There is only how you see yourself," Benjamin said. "We're both the truth, but we're both lies." The Real Man listened in silence, his mind closing to all other thoughts. Were these two images really him, or what he thought he really was? Wasn't it both? What did he want? The one, the only truth that could come out of this, was that he didn't want to choose either side. To his right was what his past that he tried to erase, to hide from. To his right was the future he feared that he would become. He felt the knot in his stomach tighten to an unbearable extent.

"Then, truthfully, I don't want to choose. I'm not like either of you," he said, trying to sound brave in the face of his opposites. They both laughed at his pitiful attempt.

"It doesn't matter," they said in unison. "You have to choose, you are _destined_ to take a side; the next stage doesn't leave room for indecisiveness."

"If you looked into yourself, into your past, if you remember what you became, than you would gladly come back to me," said Benjamin. "And then you would know nothing but simple dreams, and happy endings," he said. The Real Man looked into himself; did he really want to forget everything and return to the life he knew before, or was that just a lie that Benjamin told him?

"Who you were then doesn't matter, _this_," Sweeney said, pointing at his face, "is who you became. You are no longer afraid, no longer intimidated, no longer held down by the world's ignorant pleasures. You are now above any other human, without any inhibition." Again, was he wise, or was that just what Sweeney was saying to persuade him?

Did knowledge of the world's horrors and knowledge of evil mean enlightenment, or did ignorance and meaninglessness bring happiness. He wanted both; he longed to be both happily in love yet wise. To both options, there was no middle ground. He felt the pressure build inside of him, like he was being compressed into the ground. The pricking of a thousand tiny needles stung his mind and body, puncturing him painfully physically and emotionally. He fell to his knees and hung his head low, unable to bear looking at his twisted images any longer. He welcomed the unfeeling, black ground he knelt on. He pressed his hands into its surface; it was neither hot nor cold, soft nor hard, permeable or solid. He fell into a brief moment of mindlessness, trying to shut out the future, to stop thinking about the bottomless pairs of eyes that didn't offer true happiness or satisfaction.

_Choose wisely._

What did that even mean? The Real Man was beyond frustration; he was in pure agony, not sure what to call himself, not sure who he was supposed to be. But did it matter what he was _meant_ to be, what he was fated to become? It seemed like his two personalities were set on him believing that he must choose, even though he really had no choice. They believed that the real truth was that he was fated to choose one or the other, destined to a final, definite fate. The real question however, the real truth, was whether or not fate even existed. If this was in fact, a choice, than it should be exactly that. If his life was governed by Providence, than choice didn't really exist. So did it exist? Sweeney wanted to believe in this intangible idea more than anything other ideology that he believed in. The hope that he was in control of his life's outcomes, rather than being on puppet strings, fueled his spirit. But fear struck a chord within him; what if his faith was wrong? What if, despite all he believed in and cared for, it didn't matter? Could he trust his own intuition and faith; would it be enough? His mind was swimming, tormented by his lack of trust and decisiveness. It hurt from processing all of the information pouring in so quickly. Sweeney, Benjamin-whatever you wish to call him-was never really a man of faith. When he was Benjamin, he did believe in some sort of God, went to Church, as was custom, and prayed for the benefit of his family, friends, and country. As Sweeney, his trust in a higher power vanished. His current state of self doubt left him weak and hopeless. He longed for guidance, a light to focus his mind.

"Lucy," he barely whispered. The mirrored images didn't seem to hear him. "Someone, help," he said, barely louder than the ticking of a watch. He closed his eyes, but his racing mind made it difficult for him to keep them shut. Reflections of his past flew by him at unprecedented speeds, a blur or random shapes and colors. The Real Man felt mentally exhausted, drained by the strain of mind over matter. "I don't which way to turn."

_You're not alone._

He could have sworn he heard a voice sigh in his ear. It was the sweetest, more musical voice he had ever heard, even more beautiful than Rebecca's. The voice ringed like a thousands bells in a perfect symphony. It instantly calmed him, his racing thoughts slowed down, their cacophony quieted.

_I will always be with you._

The Real Man didn't know who was speaking to him in the gorgeous, echoing accent. Was it Lucy, Rebecca? Whoever it was, he was glad for someone to watch over him.

_What must I do, what must I believe?_

_Believe in what's good, what's right._

_But isn't right and wrong only opinion?_

_Whatever _you _believe is right, is. I know you'll choose goodness._

With that, the voice departed from him. Right and wrong…belief…choice. With that, he knew what he had to do; not what he was meant to do, or foretold to do, but what _he _believed he must do, what _he chose _to do.

He lifted off of his knees and raised his head to face his reflections. They were patiently waiting for him, smiling as if to say, "Well?" The Real Man turned to face Benjamin. He spoke to him first.

"Benjamin, I will not be suppressed by your lies and ignorance," he said. Benjamin frowned coldly; Sweeney smiled maliciously.

"Sweeney, I will not be tormented by your hatred and loveless existence," he said. Sweeney was not pleased.

"You can't ignore us, you are fated to choose one of us," he spat, his voice growling like a vicious animal.

"No, Sweeney, that's where you are wrong. I don't believe that I can be tied to what others think I must do. I am not the puppet of Providence. It isn't what I have done in life that claims my fate, but who I want to be, and I don't want to be a monster," he said. "I don't want to be a fool." He approached both of the mirrors closely. By now, the images seemed uneasy, and briefly glanced at each other.

"I don't want fall into your nightmares," he said angrily. "I don't want to choose darkness." With all his strength, he threw his fists upon the images. The mirrors cracked, sending shockwaves throughout his arms. His hands were stinging from deep cuts, dripping with blood. "I want to choose love." He panted hard, not daring to look into the destroyed mirrors. He remained there for some time, his weight leaning on the broken glass, his fists cutting deeper and deeper into the shards of glass, strands of hair hanging in front of his eyes. In front of his face was the middle, empty mirror, as perfectly smooth and soft as water. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in over fifteen years, he prayed. He prayed that what he did was right, was unselfish, was good. But no matter how long he silently whispered words of help, the beautiful voice didn't return to him. _Have I failed?_ he wondered. He remained silent and still for what seemed like eons, wondering in horror if he choose _wrong_.

No musical voice answered him, but an entirely different, but equally beautiful sound, answered. It was the sound of the ripples on the water, the hum of flute, so soft and delicate that it was barely audible. He opened his eyes searching for the sound's origins, and found it to be coming from the center mirror. It was rippling like water, fluttering delicately and smoothly. An image was forming in it, but it was not cloudy and gray like the others. This one was instantly clear, immediately colorful and bright. It was him, but unlike he had ever seen himself. The image was happily smiling, his eyes calm and deep with understanding. His features were strong yet kind, and he looked tranquil. It was the Real Man's embodiment of how he wanted to see himself; full of love and life, but wise with knowledge. It was a face that accepted the world's troubles, but did not permanently hold onto them. It was a face that said, "Well done."

The image turned to the side and gestured towards the middle of the mirror, as if saying, "Come hither." The reflection of a door, brilliant white and smooth appeared. It opened, and the Real Man was initially blinded with its intensity, but soon was mezmerized by it. It was beautiful, perfect, wonderful. The image gestured with his head, urging the Real Man to join him. The image held his hand The Real Man. Hesitantly, the Real Man touched the mirror, only to realize there no longer was glass.

"What shall you call yourself?" the image asked.

"Benjamin," the Real Man said. "That's what Lucy called me." With one final breath, Benjamin and the image molded into one single life force. Ben felt more alive than ever before. His heart soared with ecstacy, filling with an indescribably happiness. Brilliant luminescence surrounded him. With a step as light and graceful as an angel, he stepped through the white door. Behind it was Lucy, Rebecca, and everyone else he had ever loved and appreciated. Even Mrs. Lovett was there with Albert. Ben no longer looked at her with hate, but appreciation and friendship. Ben's eyes filled with the light of love, his body and soul no longer heavy with grief and pain. For him, there would be no more tears, no more sorrow, no more darkness. For now, Johanna will live her life happily with Anthony, and many joys and sorrows will fill her. Ben would wait for her, wait to explain her life, wait to present her the truth. Her time would come, and Ben would greet her with open arms. He smiled at the thought.He held Lucy and Rebeca's hand, and his mind was filled with one word. Home.


End file.
